


Steter Drabbles

by cywscross



Series: Steter Collection [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alive Hale Family, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha Stiles, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angel Danny, Angel Lydia, Angel Stiles Stilinski, Angst, Apocalypse, Asexual Character, Asexual Stiles Stilinski, Asexuality, Assassin Stiles Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Beacon Hills, Cats, Character Death, Child Peter, Comfort, Cop Chris, Crossdressing, Dark Stiles, Depression, Detective Peter, Detective Stiles, Dom/sub Undertones, Dragon Culture, Dragon Stiles Stilinski, Eichen | Echo House, Episode: s03e10 The Overlooked, Established Relationship, Fae & Fairies, Fluff, Full Moon, Future Fic, Genie Stiles, Ghost Laura Hale, Ghost Stiles Stilinski, Hermit Stiles Stilinski, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, Hurt Peter, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kitsune Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magical Realism, Mates, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Murder, Neglect, Nemeton, Nogitsune, Older Stiles Stilinski, Original Character(s), Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Season/Series 05, Post-Season/Series 05A, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Slash, Psychological Torture, Scars, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Spirit Animals, Stiles Stilinski Saves The Hales, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent, Stress, Tattooed Peter, Tattoos, Thief Peter Hale, Thief Stiles Stilinski, Torture, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Stiles, Tragedy, True Mates, Vampire Stiles Stilinski, Werecrow Stiles, Werefox Stiles, Wereowl Stiles, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Politics, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski, Wolf Peter, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-11 07:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 59
Words: 166,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4426598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically what it says on the tin.  All short drabbles, ~100-5000 words long; a collection to hopefully cure writer’s block.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kitty Therapy

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Même dans la mort](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9824243) by [Thecrasy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thecrasy/pseuds/Thecrasy)



> My longer fics are all stalling, and the words just aren’t coming, so here’s to hoping some tiny fic pieces might jog my motivation. I might even expand a few of these drabbles one day into something longer, but for now, this collection’s just something I’ll add to whenever writer’s block gets the better of me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diamond’s the one who comes and tells Stiles when she finds a man on the front lawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Pre-Season 01, Hermit Stiles, Cats, Fluff, Preslash

 

Peter stares.

The stranger – young, sixteen, maybe seventeen, and all pale skin and wide amber eyes dressed in shorts and a baggy sweater – is sitting at the foot of the bed and staring back.

Peter’s gaze flicks down.  Did he mention the silvery-white cat perched on the boy’s lap?  Also staring at Peter with haughty blue eyes a shade lighter than his own.

Peter clears his throat.  “Where am I?”

He almost cringes at how hoarse from misuse his voice is.  His muscles ache from exhaustion, his stomach twists with hunger, and he barely feels capable of defending himself from that cat should it decide to attack, much less anything else.  Not surprising considering he’s nothing but a packless Omega right now.

But he’s dressed in fresh clothes that smell wind-dried with a hint of gingerbread and an underscore of detergent, as opposed to the tattered remains of his hospital gown that he recalls from his mindless sprint through the forest, and the bed he’s tucked into is more comfortable than the one he laid in for six years at the hospital.

The boy blinks at him, arms absently clutching his cat closer to his chest.  The cat somehow manages to pull off a faintly long-suffering look but makes no move to squirm away.

“My house,” The boy informs him bluntly.

Peter’s lips thin.  His shoulders feel stiff with guarded tension.  “And why am I in your house?”

The boy cocks his head.  “You collapsed on my front lawn.  Diamond-” He motions at the cat in his lap.  “-said I shouldn’t leave you there.”

Peter eyes the cat again.  “…So you took me into your house but you didn’t call the police?  Where are your parents?”

The boy’s face goes blank.  “I live alone.”

More silence.  Peter is beginning to wonder just exactly who he accidentally stumbled on after a blind, night-long rampage through the forest.  Mentally, he still feels… shaky at best, but at least he’s clearer now than he was… yesterday?  He remembers his crazy nurse opening the window and letting him out when he wolfed out in bed because it was a full moon and he could finally – _finally_ – move, and all he could think about then was _rundon’tgetcaughtrunfindsomewheresafe **run**_.

He remembers the blur of green and brown, the woods he used to run in with his pack, and he remembers catching glimpses of the moon, and he remembers running until he couldn’t run anymore.  After that…

Well apparently, he went and collapsed on someone’s front lawn.

He looks at the boy again.  He doesn’t look like the shy or easily embarrassed type, not with the unwavering, avid way his gaze is set on Peter, and therefore Peter’s scars.  He’s clearly not easily scared either, but then, he doesn’t know what Peter really is.  Does he?

“What’s your name?”  Peter asks next.

“Stiles,” The boy tells him.  “You’re Peter Hale.”

Peter has to suppress a snarl.  His hands go white-knuckled in the sheets pooling at his waist.

“The hospital called the police,” Stiles continues blithely.  “The police is looking for you.”

“And you know this how?”

“I have a police scanner.”

Great.  So his temporary host is also most likely a criminal.  Not that Peter has much of a problem with that but it adds to the mystery of a teenage boy living alone with only a cat for company.

Peter frowns, extending his senses with far too much difficulty for his peace of mind.  He has to push a bit but… there are _nine_ heartbeats scattered throughout the house, including his own, and seven of those are steady but too fast to pass for human.

He regards the boy critically.  “How many cats do you have?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Twelve.  Sometimes fifteen, but Sylvia, Artemas, and Lucifer only bunk here in the winter.”

Peter listens to the th-thump of the boy’s heart.  He’s _serious_.  Peter has apparently fallen on the hospitality of the teenaged equivalent of a crazy cat lady.

“Are you hungry?”

Peter blinks.  “…No.”

Stiles just nods, already shifting to slide his legs off the bed, cradling Diamond in his arms.  “I haven’t done my grocery shopping yet but I can still make a simple breakfast.”

He pauses, but before Peter can repeat his objection to any further aid (he hates the thought of being any more indebted to someone than he already is), the boy wanders over to his side, and Peter tenses even further, his wolf growling at the back of his mind.

But then Stiles holds Diamond out, and the cat remains docile enough despite the fact that it really should be able to smell the wolf on Peter.

“Do you want to hold her?”  Stiles enquires.  He glances at Diamond, and his head tilts like he’s listening to something.  “She says that if you try anything, she’ll claw your eyes out, but she’ll let you pet her if you don’t do anything stupid.”

Peter ends up staring again.  The boy honestly doesn’t look like he’s joking.

The cat on the other hand seems to sigh after a few long seconds of Peter doing nothing, and then she’s leaping down onto his blanketed lap, circling once before settling down like she now owns the spot.

Stiles smiles a little, the first one Peter’s seen from him.

“Diamond’s a lot like me,” The boy explains, rocking back on his heels as they both watch Diamond lick one paw.  “She doesn’t usually like people.  She even hisses at the mailman when the guy comes by, even if he tries to leave as soon as possible.  You’re the first one she’s been friendly to.”

Peter makes no move to touch the cat.  “…You don’t like people?”

Stiles hums, turning for the door.  “Not usually.  But I usually don’t have people passing out on my front lawn either.”

He turns back when he reaches the doorway, and when he meets Peter’s eyes, his expression softens ever so slightly into something so painfully kind that it almost makes Peter look away.  “I’ll go make you some food.  There’s water on the nightstand if you’re thirsty.”

He’s gone in the next moment, leaving Peter with Diamond.

Diamond looks up at him.  Peter growls at her under his breath, just to see what would happen.

She… seems infinitely unimpressed.  If she had eyebrows, one of them would probably be raised.

If nothing else, this furball has attitude.

Slowly, warily, Peter lifts a hand, letting his fingers graze the soft fur of her head.  One silver-white ear flicks, and then she’s leaning into the palm of his hand until Peter obliges and begins to pet her, using his other hand to scritch under her chin.

A purr starts up in her chest like a tiny motor engine.  Her eyes go half-lidded with contentment.

Downstairs, presumably in the kitchen, he hears Stiles bustling around, heartbeat calm and without the apprehension of guile.  It doesn’t take long for the mouth-watering smell of eggs and sausages to hit Peter’s nose.

Diamond purrs even louder, pressing closer to Peter.

Peter’s wolf settles, and something in his chest loosens for the first time since the fire that killed most of his family.

There are quite a number of people he has to deal with in the future.  But for now, if Stiles didn’t hurt him when he was already down, then perhaps he can relax enough to get some rest here, at least for a little while.

There are worse places to be than cozy houses with an oddly intelligent cat in his lap and a strange boy cooking him a warm meal.

Peter should know.  He's _been_ in worse places after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	2. Family Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is young, but his mother trained him well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Assassin Stiles, Established Relationship

 

Stiles doesn’t usually choose targets of his own to go after, first and foremost because that’s not exactly what you’d call profitable.  More money and less fuss is made when a client specifically contacts him for a job because they typically know what he charges and what kind of hits he’s willing to take, and they’ll pay up or find someone else.  And even with regulars, Stiles will do his research first, ensure that the target is someone he’s willing to kill, and then, well, he’ll go kill them if they fit his parameters.

But of course, there’s always an exception to the rule.

“Hold still,” Stiles grits out, dabbing at the gash curving across Peter’s temple.

Peter rolls his eyes but does as he’s told, sitting docilely on the couch as Stiles tends to the bloody cut.  The werewolf doesn’t quite manage to keep his mouth shut though.  “It’s just a graze, Stiles.  There’s hardly any need for all this fretting.”

“I’m not fretting!”  Stiles snaps.  He keeps his hands gentle though, even as he bristles inwardly.  “But there’s a freakin’ assassin after you, and they’ve tried three times already; excuse me for being a little concerned!”

He’s seething, really.  Some bounty hunter’s encroached on his territory looking to take out Peter, first with poison in his coffee that was undetectable to a werewolf but Stiles caught because he’s _trained_ to catch these things, then with a gas leak at the bookstore that Stiles and Peter both smelt and _just_ got out in time, and now with a good old sniper shot to the head from behind that Peter only managed to avoid because Stiles has been on high-alert since the first attempt, and he managed to pull his boyfriend out of the way when he spotted the flash of the sun reflecting off the rifle lens, thankfully resulting in a graze instead of a missing head.

“Who did you piss off anyway?”  Stiles growls as he mops up the last of the blood.

“I piss off a lot of people,” Peter tells him in far too offhand a tone for Stiles’ liking.

His lips thin, and he ends up slapping on the bandage with more force than strictly necessary.  It should be healed by now if not for the fact that the bullet contained wolfsbane, which means the bounty hunter is in the know about the supernatural.

Fantastic.

“Besides, I have you to protect me,” Peter continues casually.

Stiles glances up sharply.  Blue eyes meet his with all the calm calculation Peter possesses, and it makes Stiles wonder if he’s been too… obvious the past two weeks.

He hasn’t told Peter about his little side job.  It’s a family business, one that his father once tolerated when he married Claudia but now wants nothing to do with since she died so he and Stiles don’t talk about it.  When Stiles disappears for a weekend or even a few weeks over the summer, the Sheriff will confirm whatever cover story Stiles came up with - visiting family, leaving town for vacation – but Stiles is the one who finds his own transportation and cleans his own weapons and stitches up his own injuries if he receives them.

Naturally, compounded by the fact that even his own father is uncomfortable with Stiles’ extracurricular activities, nobody else knows.  Certainly not Scott; Stiles has no desire to deal with their resident True Alpha’s high-and-mighty righteous condemnation.  And Stiles isn’t close enough to the rest of the Pack to even consider telling any of them.

But he’s been thinking about filling Peter in.  Peter probably wouldn’t judge him; the man has always accepted Stiles, darker tendencies and all.  He doesn’t bat an eyelash when Stiles cheerfully beheads a harpy with one swing of an axe.  On the contrary, Peter _approves_ , which is infinitely better than Scott trying – keyword: _trying_ – to scold Stiles for killing anything.

So Stiles doesn’t think Peter will take the whole assassin thing badly.  He may even want to tag along.  It’s just that Stiles has fallen into the habit of keeping his other life a secret, and it’s difficult for him to take that final step and reveal all of who he is to Peter.

Peter is observant though, far more so than most people Stiles knows, so he’s probably halfway to figuring it out already just from watching Stiles fight alongside the Pack when Scott has no choice but to take him along.  The others don’t notice how fluidly Stiles moves on the field or how efficient he is when he kills, movements always swift and economic and methodical.  It’s why Stiles protests and complains but almost never truly puts his foot down when Scott insists on Stiles staying behind most of the time; he can fake tripping all over the place when he’s doing regular normal people things but he can’t suppress his instincts when he’s actively fighting, and that’s not something he wants to broadcast to the Pack.  Otherwise, even the most oblivious would notice sooner or later.

And Peter is anything but oblivious, especially ever since they started a relationship and the werewolf – who is apparently a romantic at heart – has showered even more attention on Stiles.  Stiles doesn’t mind – he’s never had anyone look at him the way Peter does, like he’s freedom and safety and the moon that Peter’s wolf worships – but it also makes hiding what he does for a living pretty damn hard.  He’s running out of excuses for disappearing on weekends, and it’s gotten to the point where Stiles almost always uses a sniper rifle these days just to avoid even a _chance_ of getting so much as a cracked rib or bruise because he has Peter to think about.

Hell, he’s generally more careful with himself overall now that he has someone waiting for him to come home, knowingly or not.  The mere thought of Peter’s face if Stiles gets himself killed over something stupid is enough to make him blanch.

But he likes what he does, is the thing.  He thinks he’d probably give it up if Peter asked it of him, but the werewolf just isn’t the sort to do that.  If anything, Peter would insist on partnering up, and Stiles…

He’s always been a lone wolf, but if it’s Peter offering, well, they could be amazing together.

“Just be more careful,” Stiles sighs now, packing the first aid kit away.  He straightens before pausing, and then he stoops back down, fists a hand in Peter’s shirt, and drags the werewolf forward to kiss him hard on the lips.

Peter returns the kiss without missing a beat, licking hungrily into Stiles’ mouth before slowly tapering off into something lazier but no less heated.

They’re both a little breathless when they pull back.

 _I’ll take care of this_ , Stiles thinks fiercely as Peter leans forward to scent him, biting gently at Stiles’ neck, and Stiles melts into it, the first aid kit dropping to the floor with a clatter even as he turns to press his lips to the skin right above the bandage at Peter’s temple.  _There will not be a fourth time_.

 

* * *

 

He takes care of it.  He’s already been looking into this assassin, ever since the first attempt, and the trail is well-hidden but not _that_ well, so it only takes a few more days for Stiles to scrounge up a name – Terence Blanchet – and some background – assassin for hire, human with hunter training, a kill count of at least thirty, sent by some leftover relics of the fallen Argent empire from France.

Blanchet is good at what he does.

Stiles kills him on a Tuesday afternoon, a single bullet to the head from his perch on Peter’s apartment rooftop, sniper rifle in hand and his magic hiding his presence, watching as Blanchet sets up _his_ rifle on the roof of the building opposite and two down from Peter’s, barrel aiming straight at Peter’s open window at a narrow but excellent angle for a professional, and a pendant glinting around his neck that probably hides his heartbeat and scent and anything else that helps him conceal his presence from a werewolf with senses like Peter’s.

Too bad Stiles has been expecting him, and he’s been wanting to kill him since he first tried to poison Stiles’ boyfriend.

A single perfect shot rings out, and that’s all it takes.  Blanchet slumps to the ground, and Stiles is already disassembling his rifle.  There’s no doubt Peter heard that, and while the werewolf can’t see his would-be murderer from his window and wouldn’t call the police even if he could, Stiles would still prefer wrapping this up as soon as possible before someone else dials 9-1-1.

He takes the back stairwell down to ground level again before circling around to where he parked his car on a remote side street.  There are no surveillance cameras here, and he knows how to move without getting caught on one anyway.  He drops off his rifle case before quickly making his way to the building where Blanchet is still sprawled on the roof, and within minutes, Stiles has the body wrapped up in a tarp and the entire rooftop swept of evidence.

He’s driving away by the time the sound of sirens spike in the distance.

He never notices the electric blue eyes watching him leave.

 

* * *

 

He’s in the woods burning the body when he hears the rustle of someone close by.  He tenses immediately, already wondering who managed to catch him off-guard all the way out here, and then another rustle reaches his ears, and Stiles is already whirling around, gun in hand, and pointing it at-

His finger stops a hair shy of pulling the trigger when he sees who just stepped out of the nearby foliage.  “…Peter.”

Peter looks from Stiles to the burning corpse at Stiles’ feet and then back to Stiles.  A slow, sly smile – dark and satisfied – curls at the corners of his lips.

Stiles heaves a short sigh and holsters his gun.  Well, at least he won’t have to hide anymore.  He turns back to the body-rapidly-turning-to-ash.  He’s glad he already erased all scent from the area so that even police dogs won’t be able to trace Blanchet to his final resting place.

Stiles isn’t quite sure what to say in this situation.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to decide when familiar arms wind around his waist to pull him back into a warm chest.

“So this is what you do when you leave town,” Peter murmurs into his ear, chin hooking over Stiles’ shoulder so that they both have a good view of the hapless bounty hunter.  “I take it this is the terrible human being who’s been trying to kill me?”

Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn’t refute it.

“You could’ve told me,” Peter remarks quietly.  “You know that, right?  You never have to fear judgement from me, Stiles.”

Stiles’ lips purse, and then he’s reaching up and back to hook an arm around Peter’s neck.  He leans into the werewolf, smiling a little when Peter takes his weight easily.

“It’s not that,” Stiles huffs.  “I mean, maybe it was kinda that at the beginning, but not anymore.  I just- It’s habit not to tell people about the… family business.  Mom always said that was rule number one.  She hardly ever even discussed the assassin thing with Dad because she knew he didn’t really approve even though he loved her and would turn a blind eye.”

Peter hums noncommittally.  He always maintains a neutral front whenever Stiles’ father is brought up.

Fire crackles merrily in the background.  Stiles wriggles around until he’s facing Peter.  Peter’s arms tighten possessively around him, and he looks at Stiles like Stiles is his entire world.

“Want to come with me on my next job?”  Stiles murmurs, fingers tangling in Peter’s hair.  “I already have one lined up.  My client wants me to chop off the heads of a drug cartel operating out of Chicago.  So to speak.”

A smirk spreads across Peter’s face.  “Sounds like the perfect romantic weekend getaway, darling.”

Stiles laughs.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	3. Alpha Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles says yes. And then his Alpha goes and dies on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Preslash, Werewolf Stiles

 

Stiles doesn’t think Scott will ever quite forgive him for saying yes.  It’s probably at least half the reason why they don’t hang out anymore.

Quite possibly, it’s been some time coming anyway, ever since they found a body in the woods, and the Argents moved into town.  The only difference now is that – instead of answering about a quarter of  the text messages that Stiles no longer sends anyway – Scott pretends he doesn’t know Stiles at all if they happen to pass in the hallway.

But Stiles wouldn’t take back his answer even if he could.  Maybe it was because he put the pieces together himself even before the rampaging Alpha was identified as Peter Hale.  He was the one who figured out that the Hale fire was no accident, and he even got his hands on Peter’s medical report, so aside from Peter himself, Stiles is the only one who has the clearest picture of the hell that the half-mad Alpha was put through since his family burned and he was abandoned to rot in a hospital.

And Stiles can understand because he knows loss, knows it intimately in choked off tears in the dead of night and panic attacks that threaten to leave you at the Reaper’s door, in whiskey and disappointment and a loneliness that settles deep in the bones and tries to eat you alive at every waking moment.

And that can drive a person crazy.  Stiles at least had his father to pour himself into and distract himself with – taking care of his dad when his dad couldn’t, and raising himself to the best of his ability when his dad wouldn’t.

Peter had no one.  He had nothing to cling to but his grief.  Is it any surprise that revenge was at the top of the werewolf’s list of priorities when he could finally move again?

But Stiles saw it, saw the desperation and anguish behind the rage and madness, and he was drawn to it, drawn to a man who might understand him in return and – more importantly – _stay_ with him, because wasn’t that what Peter offered?

A chance at Pack, at not being alone anymore, at having someone cunning and sarcastic and very likely very loyal if the murder spree is anything to go by to stand beside him even when facing hell.  And Stiles fully planned to offer the same in return, because if there’s one thing Stiles excels at, it’s commitment.

He told Peter _yes_.  He meant it, in all the ways that mattered.

And he thought that might’ve been enough to at least anchor Peter a little and give him back some of his sanity.  Stiles was all for killing Kate; he just hoped that – with a willing Beta, and one as loyal as Stiles has always been once he devotes himself to someone – Peter would wait and make a better plan that didn’t have approximately two hundred percent chance of ending with the man’s death.

Clearly, Stiles was wrong, because he’s more alone now than he’s ever been before, because he’s a packless Omega newborn who woke up screaming in his own bed to the agonizing sensation of feeling the only pack bond he had – newly forged but _strong_ and _vibrant_ in a way that even he never expected – snap and crumble away to nothing, leaving Stiles hollowed out and empty and like he just chopped off his own arm.

When Scott tells him about setting Peter on fire, he also complains about Derek tearing his own uncle’s throat out instead of letting Scott do the honours for a chance at the cure.

Stiles almost rips _his_ throat out.  He wrestles his wolf’s instincts down and throws Scott into a tree instead before storming off.  Not the best way to reveal what he is but Stiles doesn’t care and neither does his wolf.

Peter is dead.

And Stiles has no one but himself to depend on.

So.  Nothing’s changed.

Aside from the gaping hole where a pack bond once existed, however briefly; a hole that he now carries around like a gushing wound that won’t heal.

 

* * *

 

Stiles avoids Derek’s Pack – if it can be called that – like the plague.  He wants nothing to do with them.  He was willing to accept one man as his Alpha, and that man is dead.  He refuses to follow anyone else, and he isn’t in the habit of jumping onboard a sinking ship anyway.

He sees Isaac, Boyd, and Erica – Erica especially – strutting around school, flaunting their new confidence and lording it over anyone who’s ever even looked at them wrong when they were at the bottom of the school food chain.  Nobody ever actually _tells_ Stiles who the new wolves on the block are but picking them out is… well, to put it plainly, they may as well have taken out a neon sign declaring what they are to anyone remotely familiar with werewolves.

Erica actually tries humiliating Stiles one time, which Stiles doesn’t understand until he gets a whiff of her arousal.  Of course, when she tries seducing him and then using his own car door to give him a concussion, Stiles very nearly breaks her wrist for it.

It’s enough to get her to back off.

Isaac and Boyd – alongside Scott – become lacrosse stars overnight.  Stiles quits the team as soon as he can track down Finstock.  He knows better than to paint a target on his back in a town that seems to attract hunters and supernatural creatures the way light attracts moths, and he isn’t about to risk drawing even more attention to himself than he already has.

Besides, he has plenty of other things to keep him occupied.  Like getting to know his wolf, for one.

It’s interesting, to say the least.  It’s as if there’s a second consciousness inside him now, except not exactly because as much as he and his wolf are two sides of the same coin – reason and instinct – they’re also one being.

Perhaps Scott had such a hard time – and is still struggling on and off even now – with his wolf because he’s always trying to reject his other half and pretend he’s normal.

Stiles on the other hand is mostly just curious about his wolf, and his wolf is equally curious about him, and it doesn’t take long for Stiles to realize that they get on _really well_.

For example, Stiles has always considered Jackson a nuisance on the best of days and a potential corpse on the worst.  Stiles’ wolf fully agrees with this assessment and votes for yanking out the douche’s intestines at the first opportunity but it also agrees with Stiles when Stiles reminds it that doing so would attract unwanted investigation and therefore unwanted danger.

So they don’t.  End of story, and Jackson gets to live another day.  On the bright side, when Jackson attempts to shove Stiles into a locker again, Stiles lets his wolf out, and they weave smoothly out of the way before tripping the arrogant dick into the nearest wall instead.

Even when Stiles was still human, at the bottom of the social ladder while Jackson was – and technically still is – at the top, he’s always considered Jackson to be beneath him.  That fact’s only been compounded now that Stiles is a werewolf.

He may be an Omega but he isn’t feral, and he sure as heck won’t bow to anyone because of it.  He and his wolf are in full agreement on that too.

They get along well.  They like each other.  They both work off the same wavelength when it comes to protecting each other from any perceived harm.

The first thing they do is pick an anchor that they can both connect to because nothing is more important right now than control and clarity and whatever strength they can build up for themselves, and an anchor is absolutely necessary for that.

They choose to anchor themselves with the desire to protect Stiles’ father.  Stiles thought- well, he thought that  _Stiles’ father_ would work, but – depressingly enough – his wolf refused.  The Sheriff hasn’t been a reliable figure in Stiles’ life since even before Stiles’ mother died, has never taken care of Stiles the way Stiles takes care of his dad, and Stiles’ wolf is all intuition – it knows better than Stiles himself that the Sheriff is not a good enough anchor for them.

Stiles loves his father, and his wolf will protect the Sheriff because of it.  But loving someone is not the same as trusting them.  They need something they can both trust to ground them to reality, and just as the Sheriff hasn’t trusted Stiles possibly since Stiles learned how to talk, Stiles hasn’t trusted his dad since alcohol entered the equation.

In contrast, Stiles and his wolf's shared affinity for wanting to protect the Sheriff is certainly an anchor that will never betray them.

After that, his wolf clicks perfectly with him, and Stiles is relieved that he can at least take comfort from his new furry companion.

 

* * *

 

Outside of school and all its teenage drama, Stiles works on his control, which isn’t actually as difficult as he once thought it would be after going through the harrying experience of almost getting killed by his (former) best friend when shit first hit the fan months ago.

He starts with his heightened senses first.  He works on identifying every scent he can pick up in his room, in his house, in his jeep, at the supermarket, on a walk down Fifth, on a run through the woods.  He develops his sense of smell until it’s practically second nature to breathe in normally and be able to differentiate all the scents his nose is bombarded with.  Emotions are harder to recognize than food or other products, but Stiles gets a handle on those too.

He also hones his hearing, pushes it to its limits, and then works on expanding those limits.  He sits on his bed and half-meditates until he can distinguish the heartbeat of a jogger two blocks down.  There’s certainly room for improvement but he thinks it’s okay progress for a two-month-old Bitten werewolf.

Then there’s tracking to figure out – both people and animals – mostly through a series of trial and error, along with hunting, mostly rabbits and mice and – once – a deer, and he ends up snacking on them after each hunt.  His wolf has to howl encouragement at him the first time, but after his initial bite into rabbit meat – still high from the thrill of a chase, and definitely hungry – he can’t really remember why he ever thought eating animals raw was gross.

Beyond that, Stiles learns how to fight.  Well, not learn, since he already knows some self-defense, so he incorporates what he knows with his new supernatural reflexes.  Even with a werewolf upgrade, he isn’t as bulky as Derek or Boyd or even Isaac or Scott, but he’s never been the type to throw himself headlong at a problem and pray that brute strength alone would win anyway.

So he practices other tactics on the occasional mountain lion he manages to track down deep in the forests surrounding Beacon Hills, smarter strategies that has him circling around and attacking from behind or leaping silently from higher ground to surprise his target.  He prioritizes speed and stealth over power, uses the wind against his opponent to hide his own scent, and teaches himself how to walk and run – on two legs and four – without disturbing the earth.

His wolf knows what vitals to aim for while Stiles knows how to plan an assault.

All in all, he takes to his fangs and claws and furry partner with a delight that he’s rarely ever felt in all his seventeen years of life.

It helps, most days, but it never truly chases away the near-overwhelming sense of bereavement inside him, nor does it erase the nagging weakness that tugs at him the longer he remains an Omega without a pack.

 

* * *

 

Stiles makes faces at the mirror sometimes, halfway wolfed out and snorting at how his eyebrows disappear.  Inside him, his wolf usually growls its exasperation at him before nudging him over and taking over the rest of the transformation.

It’s as easy as breathing for them, and the shift flows like water.  He trusts his wolf, and his wolf trusts him, and that’s all it takes for them to volley control back and forth with the effortlessness of a single entity.

As a wolf, his pelt is in light to medium shades of brown with streaks of white and grey here and there, whiter around his muzzle than anywhere else.

It’s always his eyes that catch his attention though.

They glow an electric blue, and the first time Stiles sees them, he’s as surprised as he is unsurprised.

 

* * *

 

Predictably, Stiles has nightmares.  Sometimes, he dreams of Peter burning to death.  Other times, he dreams of drowning in darkness and hearing his wolf howl in the distance, the sound always full of wordless mourning.

Oddly enough, whenever Stiles jolts awake drenched in sweat and shredding his blankets with uncontrolled claws, he always feels like he’s being watched, and rather than making him uneasy or even more anxious, it soothes something inside him instead, calming him down enough to at least lie back down after grabbing a glass of water and a fresh blanket.

Once or twice, he can even swear he feels fingers comb through his hair, lulling him back to a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, he always convinces himself that it was just his imagination, because what else could it be?

 

* * *

 

Four months after he becomes a werewolf, Peter comes back to life.

Figures.  The bastard doesn’t even have the decency to stay dead.

Stiles doesn’t know whether he should be angry or relieved.

On hindsight, he thinks he knew even before he saw the man, knew the moment Peter drew his first gasping breath and crawled out of his grave.  But Stiles has spent so long ignoring the part of himself where a pack bond should be that he just doesn’t notice despite his wolf stirring restlessly inside him that day.

But then Gerard’s men try to nab him, and they make the mistake of coming at Stiles the way the presumably would any other vulnerable packless Omega.

Stiles is in the process of making sure that that is the _last_ mistake they’ll ever make when Peter shows up.  Stiles has already killed two hunters by literally sinking his claws into the back of their necks and wrenching out their spines, and he’s fending off the last one when he hears a rapidly approaching heartbeat, and then a dark blur hurtles out of the nearby bushes and crashes straight into the hunter, toppling him to the ground and tearing into him with all the vicious fury of an enraged god.

The hunter’s screams dwindle quickly to a wet gurgle before even that’s cut off by the crunch of a clawed hand at the human’s throat.

And then the figure stands, and Stiles stays frozen in place as Peter turns to face him, one hand plucking out a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans to mop up the gory mess dripping off his nails even as his gaze roams over Stiles’ face the way a man dying of thirst would look at an oasis.

Peter takes a step forward.  Stiles automatically backs up a step, and he doesn’t even know why, but it makes Peter stop, expression going blank.

Stiles opens his mouth, only to close it again when nothing comes up.  He swallows, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.  His wolf is wary too but Stiles can sense its desire to move forward as well.

Towards its Alpha.

Peter takes another step, and this time, Stiles stands his ground, watching as the older werewolf draws closer and closer until there’s less than a foot between them.

A smile quirks one corner of Peter’s mouth, and it looks genuine but almost… tentative at the same time.  “Hello, Stiles.  Missed me?”

Stiles’ eyes instantly narrow, and he can feel them flaring blue without his consent even as his lips pull back into the slightest of snarls.  Peter looks startled for a split second before a look of fascination flickers across his face, and his own eyes – already blue – brighten to an icy cobalt that mirrors Stiles’.

“Look at you,” Peter whispers, drifting closer until they’re pretty much sharing breathing space, and Stiles can feel the older werewolf’s body heat.  Peter’s heart is beating almost as fast as Stiles’.

“I knew you would make a beautiful wolf,” Peter continues in a low murmur.  His gaze slices over to the two hunters Stiles took down before returning to Stiles, a smirk curling at his lips.  “You’re a natural.”

“No thanks to you,” Stiles bites out before he can stop himself.  His wolf whines.

Peter’s smirk falters, and after a moment’s silence, he nods once, lips thinning.  “No, you’re right.  I’m… sorry.”

His heart doesn’t skip.  Stiles blinks.  He didn’t think Peter would apologize. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I planned to come back to you,” Peter says insistently, swaying forward, eyes intent.  “You have to know that.  But I thought I could finish off Kate first.”

Stiles frowns.  He looks away and then looks back.  “But then Scott and the Argents and Derek ambushed you.  Yeah, I heard.  I just-”

He stops.  His throat feels tight all of a sudden.  He freezes again when Peter’s hand cups his cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth over his cheekbone.

“I’m here now,” Peter reminds him, crowding impossibly closer until the two of them are literally plastered against each other, and when Stiles makes no move to step away, Peter slings his free arm around Stiles’ waist.  “I was possessing Lydia the past few months.  I had to, to come back, but I could visit you sometimes, usually when you were asleep.”

The presence in Stiles’ room whenever he wakes from a nightmare suddenly makes a whole lot more sense.

“I’m here now,” Peter repeats, voice weighted with a promise.  “And I won’t leave again.”

And when the man slides his hand down to Stiles’ neck, it’s instinct for Stiles to bare his throat, tension easing from his shoulders as Peter scents him thoroughly, leaning forward to nuzzle his jawline, hand curling at the nape of Stiles’ neck.  It presents the perfect opportunity for Stiles to scent Peter in return, rubbing his cheek against the older werewolf’s, not caring in the least about the scratch of Peter’s new beard.

And between one blink and the next, a pack bond flares to life between them, binding them together once more.  It pulses softly at the back of Stiles’ mind, his wolf yipping with joy as it twines around the gentle glow of the bond, and Stiles can feel his anchor shift and settle onto the connection.

Onto Peter.

“Alpha,” Stiles sighs happily, slumping against Peter’s solid frame.

Peter’s arm tightens around his waist.  Regret thrums across the pack bond.  “Not quite anymore, sweetheart.”

Stiles snuffles a drowsy scoff into Peter’s collarbone.  “Well we can’t have that.  I’ll do some research.  You can help me.  Then we’ll go catch one for you.”

Peter goes still for all of two seconds before laughter rolls up from his chest and spills out into the open, pleased and thrilled and honest.

“I like that plan,” Peter muses, finally pulling back.  He chuckles at the disgruntled grumble Stiles voices.  “But later.  You look tired so let’s get you home.  And tomorrow, we can go for a run together, and you can show me everything you’ve taught yourself before I teach you more.”

Stiles smiles as they make their way towards his jeep.  He likes the thought of running together.

He glances down.  Peter holds his hand and doesn’t let go.

 

* * *

 

“Stay?”  Stiles asks sleepily after rolling into bed.

Peter is already climbing in after him, wrapping himself around Stiles and tucking the blankets around them both.

“Of course,” Peter replies, and it sounds like _always_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	4. Silver Lining (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As soon as Stiles finds out what his sister is up to, he books the first flight out to San Francisco before making his way to Beacon Hills.
> 
> (Possibly with a stolen car.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Preslash, Alive Hale Family, Stiles Stilinski Saves The Hales, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent, Hunter Stiles, Older Stiles

 

The Hale house is already burning by the time Stiles swerves into the Preserve, braking with a screech that can barely be heard over the roar of the fire and the groan of crumbling wood.

There’s a man – a werewolf, wolfed out and screaming – throwing himself against the barrier formed by the mountain ash circling the house, heedless of the flames already licking at his legs with all the single-minded hunger of a starving beast.

Stiles doesn’t even bother closing the car door before he’s racing off towards the house, squinting against the billowing black smoke and stopping just short of stepping into the actual fire, but it’s still close enough for Stiles to thump a hand against the man’s shoulder.

The werewolf rounds on him, fangs bared, eyes gold and wild, and claws ready to rend him into bloody pieces.

“Wait!  Wait!”  Stiles throws up his hands, hoping the werewolf hasn’t become too feral yet.  “I want to help!  I’m here to help!  I can break the mountain ash line!”

The man snarls, the light in his eyes reaching feverish heights, and for a second, Stiles thinks the guy is going to kill him anyway, but then a clawed hand darts out, closes around Stiles’ forearm, and roughly yanks him forward.

“Break it!”  The werewolf growls, a rumbling threat in the animalistic timbre of his voice.

Stiles narrowly avoids stumbling into a patch of burning grass, simultaneously twisting expertly out of the werewolf’s bruising grip as he scans the ground.  Even with all the smoke, the mountain ash is easy enough to spot, and without hesitation, Stiles scrubs a sneakered foot over it, erasing part of the line and consequently dropping the barrier.

In the next second, the man is shoving past him in a blur of movement, throwing himself straight into the burning building without another glance at Stiles.

Stiles grits his teeth.  The heat around him is stifling, and he’s inhaling smoke with every breath he takes.

But…

He covers his nose and mouth with one sleeve as best he can before plunging into the fire after the werewolf.

 

* * *

 

The smoke is even thicker inside, and there’s crackling flames _everywhere_ , but the werewolf seems to know where he’s going, and he doesn’t even seem to feel the boiling temperature around them as he forges his way through the house, smashing through partially collapsed walls before breaking down a door that opens to a flight of stairs leading down to the basement.  The man leaps down the steps, and Stiles scrambles down after him, stifling the coughs scratching at his throat.

“Peter!”  A woman shouts from the middle of the room downstairs, surrounded by adults and teenagers and children, some crying, others unconscious.  “What are you doing in here?  You have to get out while you still can!”

The man – Peter – ignores her, spinning to glare at Stiles again.  “Break the circle!”

Stiles is already hurrying forward, and a moment later, the mountain ash line is destroyed, and the wolves are free.

The woman wastes no time picking up the girl glued to her side before barking orders at the rest of her family.  Stiles assumes she must be Alpha Hale.

“Everyone out!  Quickly!”

All the adults scoop up either one of the younger kids or one of the people out cold (probably drugged by the looks of it), and Peter – a boy of about four in his arms – leads the way back upstairs with everyone else stampeding up after him.

Stiles doesn’t mind bringing up the rear.  First or last – it doesn’t really make a difference at this point, and the Hales include _children_.

They surface directly into a chaotic inferno, and they’re all dodging debris and trying to find a way through the spreading flames before they end up roasting in what is virtually a very large oven.

“There’s the exit!”  Someone calls out from somewhere up ahead, and everybody runs in the general direction of the voice.

For a moment, Stiles thinks they’re all going to get out alive.  Even he can feel a breeze now, humid but natural, wafting in from the entrance.  And at least three-quarters of the Hale Pack is already home free.

Of course, that’s exactly when the ceiling decides to give out and come down on them in a crashing rain of splinters and blackened wood.

 

* * *

 

Someone screams in the distance, faraway and muted.

“Fuck!”  Stiles wheezes as he drags himself out from under what used to be one of the supports of this house.  There are rips in his clothing, a messy gash down his calf, and a stinging cut just above his right eye.

He staggers to his feet.  The smoke is so thick now that he can barely see two feet in front of him.

But he _can_ hear-

Coughing harshly, he lurches to the right, to a table that has somehow miraculously remained upright and mostly intact.  He crouches down and looks underneath it.

Wide golden eyes stare back out of a frightened, tearstained face.  Stiles offers a bracing smile at the girl.  She can’t be any older than six.

“Hey, sweetie,” Stiles greets in a hoarse voice.  “Are you okay?  Are you hurt?”

The girl lets out a whimper, more tears welling up, but she shakes her head, curling tighter into herself.

Stiles waves rather uselessly at the smoke around him before extending his hand.  “Come on then, it isn’t safe to stay in there forever.  We need to get outta here.”

The girl doesn’t move.  Stiles strives for patience.  “Sweetie, what’s your name?”

The girl swallows.  “Addy.  Adelaide.”

“Okay, well, Addy, I’m Stiles.  I helped- Peter get inside to save your family earlier, and now I need you to come out so I can get us outta here.”  Stiles ducks down a bit more to hold her gaze.  “The rest of your family’s waiting outside.  They must be very worried about you but they can’t get back inside so you need to be brave now and make it out to them.  That’s your job now, okay?  You need to get out alive, and I can help you do that.”

Addy’s uncurled a little as Stiles talked, and she glances timidly at his hand.  A sudden crash of falling rubble makes her jump, and then she’s surging forward and flinging herself into Stiles’ arms, almost knocking him off his feet with the force of the impact.

“It’s okay, it’s alright,” Stiles soothes, smoothing a hand over her hair.  He shifts his hold on her to get a better grip, and her arms quickly circle around him as she buries her face against his neck.

Stiles rises to his feet.  His leg doesn’t hurt but he’ll put that down to the adrenaline pumping through his system.  He looks around.  There is a veritable wall of fire between them and safety.

His mind races.  “Addy, can you point me to the nearest bathroom?”

Addy sniffles but pulls back enough to see.  She clings tighter to him but manages to point and cough out, “That way.  Down the hall, first door.”

Stiles books it down said hall, eyes watering from all the grey-black smog.  It’s getting even harder to breathe.

“Okay, Addy,” He sits her down on the counter.  Half the wall connecting to the bathtub has crumbled but there isn’t as much smoke here, and – hallelujah – there’s a bathrobe still on its hook behind the door.  “I need you to let go for a moment.  I’m not going anywhere but I need to use my hands.”

Addy is visibly reluctant but she does it, watching him like a hawk instead as Stiles grabs the bathrobe, hopes to god there’s still running water, and turns the handle for the bathtub.

Water gushes out.  Thank fuck.

Stiles soaks the bathrobe thoroughly, and he doesn’t bother wringing it out before he’s draping it around Addy, bundling her up in it as much as possible before gathering her up in his arms again.  She doesn’t complain about the water, more concerned with hanging on to Stiles like a koala bear instead.

Stiles takes them back out into the hallway.  He flinches when the floorboards behind him crack and literally drop away, not helped by the fact that – three seconds later – the light fixture overhead plummets to the ground with a piece of the ceiling and takes another chunk of floor with it as it continues its descent into the basement.

“Ah shit,” Stiles mutters under his breath as he scurries back towards the general direction of where the front door – or what’s left of it – is.  Addy presses her face into his neck, and Stiles can feel her trembling against him.

Above them, around them, the house sways.  They’re out of time.

But the entrance is completely blocked; there’s no way Stiles can run through those flames without catching fire himself, and probably Addy too.

On the other hand, the living room – while filled with smoke and also burning steadily – has a window.  The glass is still more or less unbroken, and the curtains have caught fire, but…

The house groans.

Stiles clutches the werewolf in his arms closer to himself and takes a running leap.

 

* * *

 

Everything seems to move in slow motion when he bursts through fire and glass to get them outside.  In the time it takes for him to hit the ground, he sees the Hale Pack scattered on the front lawn, and he sees the unconscious number amongst them placed behind those who are clearly gearing up for a fight.  He sees claws and fangs and fur.  He sees his car idling several dozen feet away.

But it’s the dark blonde woman facing the wolves and holding a gun to a teenager’s head that Stiles zeroes in on.

And then he hits the ground and rolls to his feet in one smooth motion, one arm still cradling Addy while the other swipes the weapon holstered to his leg, and when he straightens into a fighter’s stance, his gun is already up and pointed straight at the woman.

Everyone is quiet for a moment, stunned silent by Stiles’ dive out the window.  And then one of the werewolves screams.  “Adelaide!”

At the sound of her voice, Addy squirms out of Stiles’ grasp and hurls herself at the lady sprinting back towards them and practically smothering the little girl in a heartfelt hug.  Addy bursts into tears all over again with a sobbing cry of “Mama!”

Stiles doesn’t take his eyes off the blonde.  The relief is palpable amongst the Hale Pack but none of the werewolves relax, all of them poised to pounce and attack at the first opportunity.  Stiles gets a few wary glances but all of them have the woman in their sights as Enemy Number One.

Stiles’ mouth twists.  His gun is perfectly steady.  “Hey Sis, it’s been a while.”

A frozen silence ensues.  One of the wolves – a young woman about Stiles’ age standing beside Alpha Hale, fury colouring her features and almost overshadowing the apprehension underneath – hisses through razor-sharp teeth, “‘Sis’?”

Katherine Argent has always been able to smile like the creatures she hunts.  Stiles can appreciate the irony.

“You little _brat_ ,” Kate replies, and her tone is as cold as her eyes.  The gun pointed at her hostage doesn’t waver.  “So that’s how these mutts escaped.  I suppose you’re also the reason the Donavan Pack managed to disappear before I could get to them?”

Stiles’ shoulders roll in a small shrug.  “Good guess.”

Kate’s haughty features twist into a sneer.  “This is pathetic.  How is it possible that an _Argent_ could be born with a heart as soft as yours?  You’re a _disappointment_ , Stiles.”

Stiles’ lips thin.  “Spare me.  I’ve lost count of the number of times our daddy dearest gave me this speech.  I could recite it in my sleep.”

Kate’s expression floods with disdain.  “Yes.  It’s a pity even Dad couldn’t beat the weakness out of you.”

Stiles focuses on breathing.  On watching Kate.  On calculating the best angle to take the best shot.  “I have flexible morals, Kate, but even I can’t condone slaughtering innocent people.  Hunters follow the Code, remember?”

“They’re monsters!  What does it matter?”

“They’re innocent!”  Stiles snaps back.  “Hell, there are children here!  And some of these people are human!”

It’s Kate’s turn to shrug.  “They’re the spawn of monsters.”

More than one werewolf snarls.  The only thing stopping any of them from tearing Kate apart is the boy in Kate’s clutches, looking scared and desperate and ashamed.

Stiles eyes him for a moment before returning his gaze to his sister.  “You’re done, after this, you know that?  You’ve already burned two packs in the past three years.  None of the people you killed broke the Code, but you went after them anyway, and you got away with it.  But you’ve been caught red-handed this time so I suggest you let the kid go, Kate.  I know your MO.  Statutory rape isn’t enough for you?”

The boy flushes.  Alpha Hale’s eyes – already crimson – flash with murder, and the man on her left – Peter – growls, low and threatening, and Stiles isn’t actually sure who his ire is directed at.

“It would’ve been three packs if you hadn’t interfered.”  Kate’s lip curls.  “And the boy was perfectly consenting, Stiles.”

“I’m no lawyer but I’m fairly certain seducing him so that you could kill his entire family falls somewhere in the uninformed consent category.  Besides, there’s no way he’s legal.”

Stiles takes a step forward.  Kate’s arm at Derek’s throat instantly increases pressure.

“You have two choices now,” Stiles continues with a detached sense of calm.  “You can either leave here in cuffs, or you can leave in a body bag.”

“I’m the one with the hostage,” Kate points out, still confident.  “You know I have no qualms shooting him.”

“You shoot him, I’ll shoot you, and then the Hale Pack will rip you into little itty bitty pieces before feeding you to the nearest mountain lion.  Technically, they already have that right considering what you’ve done.”

“We’d take our time with the ripping,” Peter interjects, golden eyes burning like the fire that’s still blazing behind them.

Stiles nods without looking away.  “There you go.”

Kate glowers now.  “You think Dad will ever allow that?  I’d just have to tell him that one of these dogs broke the Code.”

“You wouldn’t even have to tell him that,” Stiles snorts.  “But it doesn’t matter what Dad would or wouldn’t allow.  You’ve pretty much confessed to all your crimes just now, and-” His free hand reaches into his back pocket and fishes out a voice recorder.  “-I got it all on tape.  The Tribunal is gonna stick you into the nearest jail cell or they’re gonna give you to Alpha Hale on a silver platter.  Either way, you’re about three hundred percent fucked.  Let the boy go, and maybe you’ll go to prison with a chance at phone calls pending good behaviour.”

Kate is no longer as certain of herself.  Hardly anyone else would be able to tell, but Stiles grew up with her.  He can read her better than almost anyone.

“You’d turn on family?”  Kate spits out.  “For a bunch of rabid dogs?”

Stiles doesn’t blink.  “We haven’t been family in a very long time, if we ever were.  We’re Argents, Kath.  Children of the main line to boot.  Gerard doesn’t grow us on _love_.  Now let.  The kid.  Go.  I won’t repeat myself again.”

“Or you’ll shoot me?”  Kate’s voice goes silky.  “You won’t do it, Stiles.  You’re _soft_.”

“Are you willing to bet your life on that?”

Kate stares at him.  Stiles stares back.  In this moment, they may as well be the only ones in the world.

“I’ll take option number three, if it’s all the same to you,” Kate says at last, and then she’s moving backwards and hauling the boy along with her.

“Ah-ah-ah,” She taunts when Alpha Hale springs forward and Peter drops into a lower crouch, both of them with their teeth bared.  The man on the Alpha’s right looks equally enraged, but when he moves, it’s to pull a young woman – the one around Stiles’ age – back before she rushes Kate.

“You don’t want to do that,” Kate smirks, and Stiles watches as she makes her way towards the car that Stiles pulled up in.  He didn’t even take out the keys.  “Don’t worry; I suppose it’s in my best interest to leave darling Derek alive after all but you’ll understand if I don’t let him go until I’m in the car.  The key’s still in the ignition, right Stiles?  In such a hurry to save a bunch of werewolves that you left me an escape route; how thoughtful.”

Stiles says nothing.  He simply follows her progress with his gun, watching as she reaches the driver’s side, as she kicks Derek’s legs out from under him so that she maintains her shield even as she climbs into the car, and then – with one last smirk at Stiles – she shoves the boy away, not even pulling the door fully closed before she’s peeling off in a shriek of dust and gravel.

“Derek!”  The woman around Stiles’ age leaps forward as Derek crumples like his strings have been cut, and everyone else is on her heels.

“We have to go after her!”  Alpha Hale growls even as she stoops down to pull Derek into a hug.  “Peter-”

“Wait,” Stiles interrupts.

“Wait?!”  The woman kneeling beside Derek demands as everyone swings around to face Stiles.  “I know she’s your sister but we can’t just let her-”

“We’re not,” Stiles cuts her off, and this time, when he reaches into his back pocket again, it’s a very different device that he pulls out.

Everyone stares.

“That’s…” Peter’s fire-gold gaze flicks from Stiles to the device and back to Stiles again, and there’s something in his eyes that’s uncomfortably close to respect and even more uncomfortably close to a fledgling sort of dark fascination.

“A detonator, yeah,” Stiles confirms, and his attention turns to the taillights speeding away.

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second longer than a blink.

“Prison or death,” He murmurs, and his eyes harden.  “Death it is.”

And he presses the button.

 

* * *

 

One, two, three beats of silence.

The _BOOM_ of the car exploding overwhelms even the house fire for several long seconds, blowing the car roof sky high as the entire vehicle combusts in a fiery blast of metal and flames.

Everyone’s ears are ringing, and no pair of eyes seems to be able to tear itself away from the wreckage.

“That…”

“I wired a bomb into the car,” Stiles explains in the resulting hush.  “Though it’s not actually my car.  I stole it after my flight landed in San Francisco.  I guess I owe the owner now.”

“You planned for her to use the car to get away,” Peter’s looking at him again, and his eyes have gone from Beta gold to a natural vivid blue.

Stiles shrugs.  “I’m a contingency sort of guy.”

He glances away to meet Alpha Hale’s crimson gaze.  He holds out the voice recorder.  “I believe this is yours to do with as you will.  You should probably keep it in case my dear old dad decides to try and frame you for killing Kate without reason.”

“He’ll find out you killed her,” Alpha Hale points out calmly.

“Yes,” Stiles agrees, and he produces a second recorder.  “Which is why I have my own copy in case Gerard decides to haul me up in front of the Tribunal.  He’ll hate you more though; trust me on that.

“Now,” He steps away, pulling out his phone.  The crisis is over, and there’s something shaky in his chest that makes him feel like he’s minutes away from a panic attack.  His leg aches, he’s pretty sure he’s blinking blood from his right eye, and he finally notices the burns marring his skin.  He’s sore from head to toe.  “I’m gonna call my brother.  Don’t worry; he follows the Code, and he’s probably the best hunter to liaise with and help you sort out this mess.”

Sirens howl in the distance.  Stiles has to suppress the urge to roll his eyes.

“What about you?”  Alpha Hale enquires, and when Stiles glances back, her eyes are no longer red.

“I’m… not actually a hunter,” Stiles’ mouth twitches into a parody of a smile.  “I was trained as one but I didn’t really agree with our… family legacy.  So I walked out.  I probably won’t be much help to you.”

He turns away as his call connects, away from the werewolves’ collective curious looks.

_“Stiles?”_

Hey, Chris.  Look, I need you to come to Beacon Hills.  Kate’s dead.  And uh… well, I killed her.”

 

* * *

 

Less than twenty-four hours later, Stiles has patched himself up with some bandages bought at the drugstore, and he’s sitting in the airport in San Francisco, waiting for his flight back to New York.

He stayed in Beacon Hills long enough for Chris to arrive, grim-faced and sombre, and his older brother didn’t even say hello before he pulled Stiles into a hug.

It came as a surprise but not an unwelcome one.

And then he disappeared with Alpha Hale – Talia – and her husband to discuss terms and facts and legalities, and Stiles hightailed out of there as soon as he could slip away from Addy, who – for some reason – alternated between following her mother around and sticking to Stiles like a barnacle.

Now he’s mostly alone, exhausted and hurting even with the pain dulled by painkillers.  He doesn’t even really have any luggage since that blew up along with the car ( _and his sister_ ).  Fortunately, most of his belongings are in his apartment back in New York.  All he has on him is his wallet and passport, his phone, the voice recorder, and a pillow he bought at the airport.

His clothes are new too.  His old ones were sort of in tatters.  And his gun is with Chris now.

He’s trying to get comfortable, stretching out over five seats.  It isn’t really working out.

“We haven’t even shown you some proper hospitality yet and you’re already leaving?”

Stiles opens his eyes.  Peter looks back down at him, head cocked and a slight smile playing on his lips.  He’s dressed in fresh clothes, and he no longer looks like he’s on the verge of killing someone.  Like this, it’s easier for Stiles to see that the Beta is only maybe a handful of years older than him.

Stiles inhales a deep breath before letting it out again slowly.  “I just came to stop my sister.  Mission accomplished, so now I’m going home.”

Peter’s smile fades.  “Can’t you wait until at least your injuries have healed?  Travelling like this can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“Flights are never comfortable,” Stiles retorts.  “…Why?”

Peter arches an eyebrow.  “You saved our lives, Stiles.  The Hale Pack owes you a debt.”

“I’m an Argent.”

“And that matters why?  With the way you acted, in my opinion, you should’ve been born a wolf, sweetheart.”

Stiles frowns.  Peter sighs and switches tactics.  “You made Addy cry when you disappeared without even saying goodbye.  And I believe the rest of the Pack would like to get to know you.”

Stiles studies the werewolf.  “…Including you?”

This time, Peter’s smile is much closer to a smirk, sly and amused with the faintest hint of a flirtatious edge.  “Oh Stiles, I can assure you, it very much includes me.”

Stiles considers the man for a long moment.  Well, it is summer break right now.  And…

Peter holds out a hand.  “How about it?”

Stiles mulls it over for a moment longer.  Peter waits, blue eyes expectant and bright with something unnamed.

They walk out of the airport together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	5. Even in Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is a ghost now.  Or maybe that’s just Peter.  There’s an intolerable amount of _just Peter_ these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt:** [You’re not going to get anywhere staring at my grave, you know.](http://writeworld.org/post/125000586614/youre-not-going-to-get-anywhere-staring-at-my)
> 
>  **Warnings:** AU, Ghost Stiles, Established Relationship, Mental Instability, Depression, Tragedy, Character Death

 

 _“Give me a reason to believe that you're gone_  
_I see your shadow so I know they're all wrong_  
_Moonlight on the soft brown earth_  
_It leads me to where you lay_  
_They took you away from me but now I'm taking you home.”_

 

* * *

 

“You’re not going to get anywhere staring at my grave, you know.”

Peter lifts his gaze from the tombstone to the ethereal figure perched on top of it, dressed in familiar plaid and jeans.  One corner of his mouth ticks up.  “Seems like the thing to do.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, conveying his exasperation just as easily as he did alive.  “You’re such a creeperwolf.  Stalking me even when I’m six feet under.”

The smile at Peter’s lips collapses.  “You’re not.  You’re here.”

Stiles’ eyes are there and not there.  Peter can see them, but he can also see through them.  Either way, they go soft with sorrow, and ghostly fingers reach out to brush his cheek.

He can’t feel them but he tries to lean into the touch anyway.

“I’m gone, Peter.  And you need to accept that before it’s too late.”

Peter says nothing.  He leaves his daily bouquet of flowers before holding out an expectant hand at Stiles.

Stiles sighs – a rustle of nonexistent breath – but he takes Peter’s hand all the same.

Peter likes pretending he can feel that too.

 

* * *

 

Nobody actually tells him until Cora comes back from South America for a visit.  Peter never gets around to asking how but she somehow manages to kick up a big enough fuss, probably threatens the appropriate amount of people and hopefully smashes McCall’s face in for good measure, and eventually gets Peter released from Eichen House after one and a half long years.

She’s the only one waiting for him at the gates, and even still half-drugged, Peter can tell she’s nervous and angry and completely out of her depth.

She doesn’t tell him until they’re sequestered away in Peter’s dusty apartment, and she tries to be gentle but doesn’t quite succeed.

“Stiles is dead,” She says.

“Gerard Argent came back,” She says.

“McCall wanted to negotiate for peace instead of killing him right away,” She says.

“Half the Pack was poisoned or injured in the fallout,” She says.  “But Stiles was the only one killed.”

Peter has no recollection of what Cora says after that, but when he manages to get a grip on reality again, his niece is gone, his clawed hands are stained with his own blood, his apartment has been torn apart and destroyed, and Stiles is sitting on what remains of the counter, translucent and looking at Peter with an air of alarmed concern.

Peter beams and stumbles over to the boy to take his hands in his own.  Stiles won’t care about a little blood.  ”Cora said you were dead.  But you’re still here.”

Stiles quirks a grin.  “Of course I am.  But that’s not important right now.  You’re hurt, and I don’t care if you have super healing powers.  Let’s get you patched up, okay?”

Peter nods and dutifully follows Stiles to the bathroom.

(The drugs have worn off.  He’s lucid enough to remember that Stiles missed his last two regular visits to see Peter in Eichen House.  And he’s lucid enough to feel the black hole at the back of his mind where a pack bond used to be.)

(He ignores all of it.)

 

* * *

 

“You can’t keep doing this.”

Peter hums and doesn’t move from where he’s curled around Stiles in bed.

Stiles huffs.  “Peter, you need to eat.  You haven’t eaten in two days.”

Peter grumbles.  “I’m not hungry.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “What are you, a child?  Stop pouting, get out of bed, and go grab something to eat.”

Peter just snuggles deeper into the cocoon of blankets wrapped around the two of them.

“ _Now_ , Peter.”

Peter growls irritably but finally relents, reluctantly peeling back the sheets and getting to his feet as Stiles drifts insistently beside him.

His movements are sluggish, and his head feels fuzzy.  He’s still not hungry.

But Stiles is here so everything is okay.

 

* * *

 

Gerard is apparently _still_ alive.  He can’t even walk anymore, and he’s confined to his bed more often than a wheelchair in the remote nursing home he’s been imprisoned in, but he’s alive.

He isn’t for long after Peter gets out.  Nothing but broken flesh and dripping gore remain once Peter’s done with him.

Stiles looks vindictively satisfied the entire time.  They walk out the side door together just as Chris Argent walks in with a body bag and an armful of heavy-duty cleaning supplies.

Peter considers ripping Argent’s throat out too but Stiles shakes his head so he doesn’t.  They pass each other without making eye-contact.

Peter’s still surprised when news of Gerard dying of natural causes gets out.  He never sees Chris Argent again.

 

* * *

 

He’s back at the grave again.  Stiles takes his typical spot on top of the tombstone but he looks sadder than usual.

“What?”  Peter asks, frowning.  He doesn’t like it when Stiles is upset.

Stiles shrugs.  His legs swing idly back and forth, looking younger than ever, and it makes something in Peter ache.

“Tell me,” Peter urges when Stiles remains silent.  “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Stiles’ lips press together into a thin line.  “There’s nothing to fix, Peter.  Except maybe yourself.”

Peter stands there in front of the grave, feeling lost.  “I don’t understand.”

Stiles scowls at him.  “I’m _dead_ , Peter.”

Peter flinches.

“And you need to accept that and move on,” Stiles continues ruthlessly.  “I love you, and I know you love me, but you need to find someone or something else to live for now.”

Peter shuffles closer until he can pull Stiles into a hug.  His heart hurts.  His wolf whines, quiet and fading.  “I have you to live for.”

A breeze swirls by as Stiles cards fingers through Peter’s hair.

“No, Peter,” Stiles tells him, soft and mournful and infinitely heartbroken.  “You’re not living.  You’re just waiting to die.”

Peter presses his face into Stiles’ chest.

He doesn’t deny it.

 

* * *

 

He tracks down Stiles’ grave.  The tombstone is black, with his full name, the dates, and all the necessary lettering.

The last two lines read,

_Born with the Heart of a Wolf  
Loyal to the Very Last_

He wonders who chose it.  It doesn’t seem like something Scott or even the Sheriff would pick.  Perhaps it was Lydia.  Despite how long it took them to become friends, once they did, they understood each other on a level that people rarely ever reach.

Peter stays until the moon is high in the sky.  Stiles sits with him, nestled against his side.

He is content.

( _He is broken._ )

 

* * *

 

Time passes, sometimes in a blur, always with Stiles.

Peter takes him out on all the dates he couldn’t when Stiles was still underage and Peter was too cautious with his heart to give it away to a boy who smiled at him like Peter was his whole world.

He snaps at the waiters when they dither over serving Stiles his meal.  Just because they can’t see him doesn’t mean Stiles isn’t there.

They’re much more accommodating once Peter starts going out prepared, having dug up dirt on all the staff of whatever establishment he takes Stiles to.

They watch movies at home.  Peter loves listening to Stiles’ sarcastic commentary on the characters.

He wouldn’t mind listening to Stiles talk forever.

 

* * *

 

Peter is tired more and more often these days.

Stiles talks less and holds Peter more.

And sometimes, when he’s dozing on Stiles’ shoulder, he thinks he hears someone crying.

 

* * *

 

He only sees Scott McCall once after his release, mostly because Peter flies into a blind rage the moment they clap eyes on each other, and he ends up taking a chunk out of the True Alpha’s torso and staking him to the ground with a tree branch before Derek and Liam manage to wrestle him away until he can no longer see McCall.

They let him walk away though.  It isn’t until he’s back in his own apartment that he looks at Stiles.

Stiles just shakes his head, expression bleak.  “I’m not mad at him.  I’m just… disappointed, I guess.  I warned him about Gerard, more than once.  He wouldn’t listen.  And now I’m dead.”

Peter recoils at the reminder, and Stiles apologizes right away, but...

It’s the beginning of the end.

 

* * *

 

“Stop telling me you’re dead,” Peter pleads.  “You’re not.  You’re here.”

Stiles lies on top of him.  He’s lighter than Peter remembers.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says.

Peter clings tighter to Stiles and ignores the burn in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t leave the apartment after that last visit to Stiles’ grave.  Most of the time, he can barely work up the motivation to get out of bed, and Stiles doesn’t really urge him to anymore.

Instead, Peter sleeps more, wakes up, reads a little or watches a movie on his laptop, and then he nods off and sleeps some more.

Stiles is always there, and that’s all Peter needs.

 

* * *

 

“You’re dead,” Peter says one day to his bedroom ceiling, voice oddly hoarse even to his own ears.

“Yes,” Stiles agrees bluntly from beside him.

Peter is silent for a long while.

“I should’ve been there to protect you,” He says at last, and his voice cracks.

Stiles cuddles closer to him.  “My death isn’t your fault, Peter.”

“Maybe not, but I still should’ve been there.”

 

* * *

 

They were never mates.  Not yet.  And nobody in the know approved.  Peter was always waiting for Stiles to walk away.

But then sex became movies in the afternoon and coffee in the morning-afters and jokes and banter in bed, and Peter found himself falling too fast.

So he went out and did something stupid to put a stop to it.  To chase Stiles away.

That backfired.  On all counts.  He was shipped off to Eichen House, and Stiles stormed in mere days after his incarceration, yelled at him for a good half hour, and then stormed back out again like a particularly pissed off whirlwind.

But he came back.  And he kept coming back.

And it didn’t take long after that for Peter to realize that Stiles has been falling just as fast he's been all along.

 

* * *

 

He hasn’t left his bed in five days.  Stiles hasn’t left his side for just as long.

“I don’t want to live without you,” Peter confesses in a weak murmur that evening.

It’s a confession that they’re both fully aware of already.

Stiles sighs, long and just as tired as Peter feels, and this time, he says, “Okay.”

Peter smiles.  Stiles settles next to him, curling into his chest.

"I'll see you soon," Peter whispers.

And when he closes his eyes, he never opens them again.

 

* * *

 

It’s Derek who finds his uncle’s body, emaciated and paler than he’s ever seen him.

He isn’t surprised.

It’s a little odd though, the way Peter’s positioned, one arm laid out to the side like he’s holding someone, and legs sprawled out like they're twined with someone else's.

There’s a smile on his face, and he looks more at peace in death than Derek can ever remember Peter being in life.

That doesn’t really surprise him either.

 

* * *

 

They bury Peter next to Stiles.  There are a few unhappy mutters about this but Derek puts his foot down, and Lydia tells Scott to suck it up or she’ll make his eardrums bleed.

The two graves stand side by side.  The tombstones match, complimenting each other nicely.

Derek’s never been good with words so Lydia chooses something for the epitaph instead like she did for Stiles.  Her smile is a little mischievous and a little sad when she tells him what she came up with.

Peter might not appreciate it but Derek thinks that – if nothing else – the inscription fits.

 

* * *

 

_Even in death, he will follow his moon forever._

 

* * *

 

 _“I will stay forever here with you_  
_My love_  
_The softly spoken words you gave me_  
_Even in death our love goes on.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> **Lyrics:** "Even in Death" by Evanescence


	6. Silver Lining (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris is an overbearing mother hen. Peter can’t be anything but bad news. Needless to say, they don’t get along.
> 
> Or, the one in which Addy is the only good company Stiles can find, and Peter is... temptation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Preslash, Alive Hale Family, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent, Hunter Stiles, Older Stiles
> 
> \--
> 
> I couldn’t decide on a new drabble so I decided to write a follow-up.
> 
> On other news, I am bowing out of Steter Big Bang. My fic’s not working out. Maybe next round.

 

Peter drives them back to Beacon Hills, stopping only once for a meal and a bathroom break, and night has fallen by the time they arrive.  They pull up in front of the Hales’ guest cottages where the family is staying while the main house is being rebuilt, and apparently they have good timing because Talia and Chris are just coming out after hours of negotiation and reparation talk, if their weary, if-I-have-to-talk-shop-for-one-more-minute-I’ll-kill-someone expressions are anything to go by.

Stiles stretches the kinks out of his body after clambering out of the car.  He spent most of the ride dozing against the window, never fully asleep because he may have saved the Hales, and Peter seems to like him for some inexplicable reason, but that doesn’t mean Stiles trusts the guy enough to let his guard down.  So he still feels tired and sore, and he wants a proper bed to collapse into.

“Stiles.”

He turns, watching his brother stride over to him, sparing only a suspicious look in Peter’s direction before levelling his full attention on Stiles.  To his surprise, Chris actually pulls him into yet another hug as soon as he’s within arm’s reach.

Stiles allows it for a few seconds.  The Argents are not what anyone would call a particularly affectionate family, the main line especially, so hugs are rare.  But Chris was the one who comforted Stiles after nightmares or hunting injuries whenever he could get away with it, and Stiles is already feeling better, with his forehead resting against his brother’s shoulder and breathing him in – gun oil and coffee and the faintest dash of gingerbread because Chris has a secret sweet tooth.

One, two, three seconds, and then Stiles is shoving himself away and smirking up at his brother.  “What’s with all the hugs, Bro?”

Chris gives him a wry, knowing look in return.  “The first time I see you again in months and you were almost burned alive.  Excuse me for being happy to see you.”

Stiles snorts.  “Fatherhood’s mellowed you.”

“Only on alternating Wednesdays,” Chris assures, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder before finally turning back to Talia, who has stopped a polite distance away despite the fact that both she and Peter can no doubt hear the entire exchange.

“Alpha Hale and I,” Chris says next with much more cool formality.  “Are still discussing the terms of the breach in the Code.  With the Hale Pack alive and Kate dead, the consequences have mostly already been dealt with, but of course, the Argent family will fund all repairs and items lost in the fire.”

“We did request you as our go-between, Stiles,” Talia cuts in, equally formal, but her eyes are warm when she looks at Stiles.  “But it seems your brother is rather reluctant on that front.”

Stiles glances at Chris, who’s gone stone-faced, before shaking his head at the Hale Alpha.  “Like I said, I’m not really a hunter.  I’m nobody so me as your liaison wouldn’t work out.”

He looks at Chris again.  His brother is fair but the man’s no fan of werewolves either.

“I would hardly call you nobody,” Peter speaks up for the first time since they arrived, and his voice is pitched in a suggestive enough purr that Chris automatically snaps his head around to pin the Beta with a glare.

They didn’t get to talk much during the ride but Stiles got the sense that Peter was a troublemaker and a manipulative ass, arrogant without being stupid, confident in his own skills with the ability to back it up, and therefore very likely the most dangerous member of the Hale Pack.

The guy is Talia Hale’s enforcer and left hand, enough said.  You don’t get that position just because you’re the Alpha’s brother.

“We’re done here for tonight,” Chris concludes stiffly, nodding curtly at Talia, who returns the acknowledgement with a brisk nod of her own.  “Stiles, I’ve booked a hotel room already.  There’s an extra bed for you.”

“Nonsense,” Peter interjects smoothly, completely ignoring the sharp look his sister sends him.  “He saved our lives yesterday; the least my family can do is put him up for as long as he’d like to stay in Beacon Hills.”

Chris’ shoulders go rigid.  “He won’t be staying alone in a house full of werewolves, Hale.”

Peter’s eyes flash gold, and a smile that hints at just a little too much teeth curls at his lips.  “Careful, Argent.  Your prejudice is showing.”

“I’m well aware my sister torched your house only yesterday.  She was Stiles’ sister too.”

“But they certainly don’t hold the same ideals.  You on the other hand, I’m beginning to wonder.”

“You’ve known my brother for all of two days.  Not even that.  I don’t trust any of you around him since you were perfectly content to leave Stiles in a burning building.  I have no doubt you’d turn on him in a heartbeat if it benefitted you.”

“Now that’s just cruel; you make us sound so unreasonable.    Which of our families here exactly tend to…”

Stiles rolls his eyes and tunes out the rest of the mounting argument.  He should’ve known these two wouldn’t get along.  Peter’s exactly the type to rub Chris the wrong way.

Movement catches his eye, and he turns to find Addy peering out from one of the cottage windows, eyes gleaming gold to help her see.  She ducks out of sight when she realizes Stiles has seen her, but then she peeks at him again, brown curls bobbing, and after a second’s hesitation, she waves shyly at him with one small hand.

Stiles can’t stop himself from smiling and waving back.  Gold eyes brighten even more, this time with a childish sort of delight, and she disappears again.  A moment later, the front door squeaks open, and Addy slips out, barefoot and decked in soft blue pajamas.  She draws closer, and Stiles notices the white seals dotting the pajamas.

She is quite possibly as adorable as Stiles’ niece, though he’ll never admit it to Chris, who may – if he finds out – want Stiles’ head on a pike for such a traitorous thought.

She stops about a foot in front of him, and Stiles crouches down so that he’s not towering over her.  “Hello again, Addy.”

“Hi,” She shuffles an inch closer before pouting at him.  “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Stiles inclines his head in apology.  “I’m very sorry.  I’m not usually one for goodbyes.  But I came back.”

Addy eyes him shrewdly.  “Are you gonna stay?”

“For a little while.”  Stiles can promise that much.

Addy seems satisfied with that because she beams.  Her eyes are hazel up close and without the added Beta gold.  But then she takes another step, and her expression falls a little.  “You smell sick.  You’re still hurt.”

That would be the painkillers wearing off.  “Only a bit, and I’ll heal soon enough.  How about you?  You’re not still hurt anywhere, are you?”

Addy shakes her head.  “No, but that’s cuz you saved me.  Mama is very grateful.  She was so scared she might’ve lost me.”

Stiles doesn’t really understand that.  He’s never had parents afraid for his safety.

“You were the brave one though,” Stiles reminds her.  “You stayed calm when a lot of people in your place would’ve panicked.  And that helped keep me calm too, you know.”

Addy’s cheeks go pink, and she looks adorably pleased for a moment.  And then she takes two more quick steps forward to close the distance between them and give him a hug.

“Thanks anyway,” She mumbles, cheek pressed against his, and Stiles – through a haze of surprise – recognizes that the girl is scenting him.

She lets go a moment later, and with another wave, she’s scurrying back towards the cottage, darting inside again before Stiles can even stand up.

He rises slowly to his full height, and he has to fight the urge to jump when Peter’s voice comes from only a few feet behind him.

“You’re good with kids.”

Stiles shifts his weight to face the werewolf.  There’s an oddly soft smile on Peter’s face, and further behind him, Talia is smiling too.  Chris’ expression is set in neutral lines again, though his gaze is still honed in on Peter’s every move.

“Addy’s usually very shy,” Peter continues, head cocked as he studies Stiles with an unsettlingly interested look in his eyes.  “She’s positively smitten with you though.”

Stiles shrugs.  “I like her too.  And I have a niece so I’ve had practice with children.”

He pauses.  It didn’t really occur to him before but… well, Kate was Allison’s favourite aunt.  Okay, _only_ aunt, but the girl has a slew of cousins too, quite a few of whom are old enough to be referred to as aunts, so Kate was her favourite.

And Stiles is going to have to sit her down and tell her that her favourite uncle blew up her favourite aunt for no explainable reason.  The girl doesn’t know about the supernatural world because Chris is a stubborn idiot who loves his daughter and thinks that keeping her in the dark is the same as keeping her safe.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks and realizes that he’s unconsciously turned to stare into the distance, straight at the spot where the car exploded.

He hastily looks away.  It isn’t quite regret that he feels, because honestly, Kate had it coming, and she and Stiles were never _that_ close anyway, especially as they both grew up.  But family is family, no matter how much you dislike each other.

Still, Stiles has always been the sort of person to do what needs to be done, and Kate needed to be stopped, so Stiles stopped her.  Permanently.

“I’m tired,” He says out of the blue, meeting Peter’s intent blue gaze again.  “Thanks for the offer but I think I’d rather stay with my brother.”

Peter nods and doesn’t argue.  “Of course, but perhaps I can show you around town tomorrow?  Beacon Hills is small but it has its own charm.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to tilt his head and scrutinize Peter more closely.  The man is innocence personified, all nothing-to-see-here and I’m-offering-solely-out-of-the-goodness-of-my-heart.

Stiles doesn’t trust it one bit.

And for some reason, it makes him want to smile.

Peter must smell the amusement on him because the werewolf grins with wolfish delight like he knows Stiles is willing to play, and not just play _along_ but play _with_.

Whatever this game is.

“Ten?”  Stiles suggests.

“Ten,” Peter agrees.  “I’ll track you down.”

And before anyone can react, the werewolf steps right up to Stiles, leans in, and boldly scent-marks him right there for the world to see.

Stiles – frozen in place but fingers already brushing the dagger hidden up his sleeve – hears Talia hiss in a breath.  And even without looking, Stiles knows that his brother’s hand is on his gun, ready to blow Peter’s brains out.

And then Peter’s pulling back, a smirk full of challenge curving his mouth.  His fingers graze the side of Stiles’ neck, and _that_ is quite enough.

In the blink of an eye, Stiles’ left hand snaps up to close around Peter’s wrist and jerk him forward.  At the same time, a flick of Stiles’ right wrist slides a dagger into his palm, and the edge is right up against Peter’s throat in the span of a single heartbeat.

A deafening silence ensues, amber staring into blue.

And then Stiles scoffs and glances down at where Peter’s claws are pressed gently against his stomach.

When he looks back up, Peter is grinning too.

“I hate to break this to you but your idea of a welcome is a bit of an overkill,” Stiles informs him, voice as dry as the desert.

Peter chuckles, the sound vibrating in his throat so that his skin kisses Stiles’ dagger.  “Only for the faint of heart, darling.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and as if on cue, he retracts his dagger just as Peter retracts his claws.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Chris barks, and when Stiles drags his gaze away from Peter to look at his brother, the hunter looks about three seconds away from turning Peter into Swiss cheese.  “We’re leaving.  _Now_.”

“I’ll bring coffee,” Peter offers cheerfully as Stiles steps away and heads for his brother’s car.

Stiles waves a hand without glancing back.  “I’ll be sure to check for poison.”

Peter’s laughter follows them out of the Preserve.

 

* * *

 

“Talia,” Peter sighs, eyes following the taillights of Argent’s car out of the Preserve.  He knows the grin on his face is probably more than a little silly.  “I’m in love.”

His sister sighs and smacks him over the head.  “I'd like to say I'm happy for you, Brother, but I really don’t care right now.  I can’t believe you did that, and in front of Christopher Argent to boot!  Are you looking to get yourself killed?”

Peter waves a dismissive hand.  “I like living on the edge.  Besides, did you see him?  _Stiles_.  He’s _perfect_.”

He can _feel_ Talia rolling her eyes in that superior, condescending big-sister way of hers, but for once, he doesn’t feel the usual spark of annoyance and resentment.

Stiles may be an Argent but there’s less hunter in him and a whole lot more wolf.

And he looks at the world, and he sees what Peter sees.

Peter can feel his wolf stir under his skin.  For the first time in his life, there is someone out there who’s managed to catch and _keep_ Peter’s interest, and it’s barely been two days since they met.

He wants to know more.  He wants to know everything.  He wants to see Stiles’ mind at work again the way it did during the confrontation with his sister – a mile a minute, twelve steps ahead of everyone else, pragmatic and determined and unafraid to do what’s necessary.

He wants to know what else Stiles is capable of.

He _wants_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	7. You are Worth the Blood on my Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Peter, Stiles doesn’t mind becoming the bad guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Established Relationship, Dark Stiles, Eichen House, Murder
> 
> **Inspired by**[cocoslash](http://halevneck.tumblr.com/)’s [Steter AU](http://halevneck.tumblr.com/post/124663466179/steter-au-stiles-breaks-peter-out-of-eichen).

 

The orderly already has a syringe pointed at Peter’s neck when Stiles barrels into the cell and tackles the rat-faced man away from the weakened werewolf on the floor.

He doesn’t hesitate in plunging his knife into the orderly’s throat.  He’s high on adrenaline, and Plan A to K went to shit the moment Morrell made an unscheduled visit and spotted him.  He’s on Plan L now; it’s one of his last-resort, messy ones.

Fresh blood is surprisingly warm.

And Stiles is dripping with it.

The orderly draws his last gurgling breath, and then Stiles is up and scrambling over to Peter, who looks woozy and dazed as he struggles into a sitting position, but he’s reaching for Stiles before his eyes even focus properly.

“Yeah, yeah, I missed you too,” Stiles mutters feverishly when Peter whines low at the back of his throat, blue eyes flaring cobalt, hands clutching at any part of Stiles that the werewolf can touch.  “But we have to get outta here before reinforcements arrive so come on, up, now!”

In the end, Stiles pretty much heaves Peter to his feet and half-carries him out of Eichen House, paying no real mind to the pools of crimson now decorating the mental asylum.

The halls are littered with bodies.  Stiles finds it cute how nobody really thinks him a threat until they’re already bleeding out on the ground.

After tonight, no one in this town will ever make that mistake again.

 

* * *

 

Outside, Peter sags even further against Stiles, chest heaving as he sucks in breath after greedy breath of cool night air after four months of moonless imprisonment.

Stiles bundles him into the car – a new one because the jeep is, sadly, too conspicuous – before climbing into the driver’s seat and flooring the pedal.

He gets to the corner.  Then he reaches for the detonator in the glove box.

When they hit the road leading away from Beacon Hills, the fiery inferno that Eichen House has been reduced to can still be seen, flames stretching towards the dark night sky.

 

* * *

 

It’s a full half hour before Peter stirs from where he’s been resting his head against the ledge of the open window, eyes closed with the wind ruffling his hair.

Stiles is still driving.  He doesn’t want to stop until dawn.  Getting as far as they can while it’s dark sounds like a good idea.

Maybe he should stop at a gas station or something though.  He’s still trying to scrub blood splatter from his face, and his hands are a sticky, accusing red.

“Clothes are in the back,” Stiles says when he notices Peter looking at him.  “How are you feeling?”

“Clearer,” Peter replies, and then he’s yanking Stiles over and catching his mouth in a hungry, desperate kiss, biting and licking his way in like he’s trying to devour Stiles whole.

Stiles has just enough time to slam on the brakes, and he really should pull away, but it’s been months, and Stiles has _missed_ Peter, missed being with him without a pane of glass between them and the werewolf drugged to his gills, and he can’t stop himself from leaning into his boyfriend and returning the kiss with equal ferocity, arms looping around Peter’s neck to pull him closer.

It’s lucky they’re on an open road with no cars behind them.

Stiles’ lips are as swollen as they look if the smugly satisfied look on Peter’s face is anything to go by when the werewolf finally lets him go.

“You owe me,” Stiles huffs out, untangling himself from his boyfriend.  “You owe me a lifetime of curly fries, sex, cuddles, and fucking marriage for what I’ve had to do to break you out of that nuthouse.”

“I’ll put a ring on your finger the moment you’re legal,” Peter promises, smile curling at his lips when Stiles does a double-take.

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes, concentrating on driving again.  “Get changed, you romantic sap.  And then help me look for a gas station or something.  At the very least, I want to wash my face and hands.”

His heart picks up speed at the reminder.  God, he doesn’t even know how many people he killed tonight, and he’s simultaneously numb and jittery when he thinks about it.

Peter moves to crawl into the backseat, and he presses a chaste kiss to Stiles’ temple on his way, one that somehow feels more intimate than the heated kiss before.

“Just so you know,” Peter murmurs into his ear.  “I would kill for you too.  So don’t worry about it, Stiles.  You just saved my life.  I didn’t… I didn’t think anyone would go this far for me.”

Something in Stiles’ chest loosens, replaced by a fuzzy coil of warmth.

“Then you’re an idiot,” Stiles retorts, smiling in spite of himself.  “As if I’d ever leave you in Eichen House.”

Peter drops another kiss in his hair, and for a moment, the werewolf draws him close again, hugging Stiles to his chest.  “I love you too.”

The four words are delivered quietly but they ring with a raw sort of honesty, and that alone makes all the stressful months of planning and a night of killing worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	8. Two's Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Nogitsune episode of his life, Stiles takes off on his own.
> 
> Peter follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Post-Nogitsune

 

Stiles’ mother owned a summer house in Alaska, and she used to take Stiles there every year, mostly just the two of them since his dad could never take too many vacation days.  The place went to Stiles after she died, and that’s where he goes now.  It’s a bit of a drive – okay, more than a bit – but it’s worth it.  The place is tucked away in the mountains, surrounded by trees and built beside a series of lakes that connect to each other.  It’s a twenty-minute drive from the nearest town, with running water and electricity because his mom didn’t believe in _complete_ isolation, thank god.

He leaves a note for his dad.  They’ve grown distant – especially after Eichen House, even without most of the lies – but not distant enough for Stiles to just disappear without a word.  He can’t stand the looks he gets from both the Sheriff and the Pack though – disappointed and pitying in turn – so he has to leave, to get away, at least for a little while.

He stops for gas, bathroom breaks, and McDonalds along the way, but other than that, he sleeps fitfully in his jeep, admires the ocean as he drives up the coast, and keeps on going until he reaches the last town before his destination.  He buys food and other necessities there, and then he’s hitting the mountains and leaving civilization behind.

It’s a relief, honestly.  People are not his favourite things in the world right now.

The place is as beautiful as he remembers it to be.  He hasn’t been here in almost ten years though, not since his mother became too ill to even recognize her own son half the time, so it’s no surprise that the cabin can do with some spring cleaning.  Good thing Stiles has plenty of practice with the Stilinski household in Beacon Hills.

By the time night falls, the kitchen and bathroom are stocked again, the bed sheets are fresh, and he’s unpacked.

He leaves the window open.  Lying in bed and listening to the soothing croon of the wind and the rhythmic whoosh of gentle waves against the shore, Stiles drifts off into the most peaceful sleep he’s had since his mother went off the deep end.

Still, he wakes up twice in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.  Nature might beat most things but it doesn't quite trump memories of the Nogitsune.

 

* * *

 

He rises at six the next morning and goes for a swim.  It’s that or kayaking, and just the thought of seeing what time has done to his old kayak stored in the shed by the dock makes him shudder.  Besides, it’s probably too small for him by now.  He’ll have to buy a new one.  And do something about his mother’s kayak too.

He freestyles back and forth between his cabin and the opposite shore for about an hour, losing himself in the simple monotony of each smooth stroke and relishing the near forgotten but oddly comforting ache in his muscles as he gives them a workout.

His mother used to joke about how Stiles might grow up to be an Olympic swimmer one day because he loved the water so much.  Stiles can say with absolute certainty that he has no aspirations towards becoming a professional athlete but his mom might have been on to something about Stiles loving water – he’s been both almost drowned to death and _literally_ drowned to death, and he still has no problems diving right back into a body of water.

That, or he’s crazy.  Most likely both.  Admittedly, he was probably born at least a little crazy.

Both of those times were his choice though, his choice to stay with Derek and keep the idiot afloat for two hours, and his choice to die to save his father.  Far more terrifying is his time as the Nogitsune’s slave because _that_ wasn’t his choice.  He had no control when that fox used his body and tortured him within the confines of his own mind, and it didn’t matter how loud Stiles screamed because nobody heard him until it was too late.  Hell, hardly anyone even noticed when Stiles took a turn for the worse after the whole sacrifice business until he pretty much volunteered to commit himself into the local nuthouse.

Which is a mistake he’s never going to make again.  If he ever has to go through Possession Take Two, he’ll kill himself before putting one toe into Eichen House.

He wades out of the water just as sunlight really begins flooding the valley, stretching languidly as his heart rate starts working its way back down to normal levels.  There’s still a morning chill in the air but Stiles can barely feel it after his swim.

He’s bending down to retrieve his towel when he feels it.  Maybe it’s a remnant of his time sharing headspace with the Nogitsune, or maybe it’s just something he’s developed after months of never-ending exposure to supernatural danger, or maybe it’s just him and his mysterious Spark that Stiles still hasn’t figured out how to wield; either way, Stiles more or less has a sixth sense for anything suspicious, and right now, he knows someone is watching him.

He picks up his towel, scooping up the gun underneath it at the same time.  He never goes anywhere without it these days, and the bullets all contain wolfsbane.  Call him paranoid, but after everything that’s happened, Stiles really doesn’t think he’s overreacting.

He hides the gun with his towel, giving himself a perfunctory dry-off as he casually scans his surroundings.

There, in the shadows between the trees on the far left.  He can’t make out a shape, but he can see the slightest of movement that shouldn’t be there.

He heads for the cabin.  Lucky for him, it takes him closer to his target.

He gets as close as possible without looking like he’s anything but oblivious while still far enough away to keep him out of range of whoever or whatever might jump out at him, and then he snaps his hand up, gun pointed straight at the shadow-that-shouldn’t-be.

“You have exactly three seconds to give me a reason not to shoot,” Stiles says in terse, even tones.  “Othewise, I’ll shoot first and ask questions never.”

For a beat and a half, there’s no response.  Stiles’ mental countdown gets to 1, and then a silhouette moves, separating from the undergrowth and loping out into the open.

It’s a wolf.  A very big wolf, larger than any regular canine in existence, and unmistakeably a fully shifted werewolf.

With equally unmistakeable blue eyes.

A duffel bag is hanging from its mouth, and there’s a gleam of amusement in its eyes.  It saunters right up to Stiles, completely unconcerned by the threat of a gun pointed at its face, and comes to a stop about a foot and a half in front of Stiles.

If it were in human form, there would be mockingly raised eyebrows involved.

Stiles rolls his eyes and lowers his gun.  “God _damn it_ , Peter.  You know, this is private property, but even if it wasn’t, I might just shoot you anyway on principle alone.”

He doesn’t of course.  Instead, with a short sigh, he turns for the house.  He doesn’t need to hear the footsteps to know that Peter is following him.

It seems his plans for recovering in peaceful solitude have been gate-crashed, and it hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours yet.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, the kettle is on, and both Stiles and Peter have taken a shower.  Separately of course, and Peter only gets one because Stiles doesn’t want him trekking dirt everywhere.  Peter’s back on two legs and in a v-neck, and he’s lounging on the only couch with his bag on the floor beside it while Stiles takes the armchair.

“What are you doing here?”  Stiles asks when Peter does nothing but smirk and study the cabin’s interior.

Peter’s shoulders roll in a shrug.  “Beacon Hills just isn’t the same without you, Stiles.  Scotty’s latest bumbling romance while playing the part of grieving widower is hardly the front-page news that everyone seems to think it is.”

Stiles stares at him for a long, frozen moment.  “…In other words, the Pack never noticed I left.”

Peter smiles, approval softened with something unnervingly close to compassion.  “Got it in one.  Of course, they may have noticed by now.  I had to leave a few days after you did or I would’ve lost your trail.”

“And that would matter because…?”

Peter smoothes nonexistent wrinkles from his sweats.  It’s a rather strange sight actually.  Stiles has never seen the werewolf in anything but form-fitting jeans.

“You missed our coffee date,” Peter reminds him.  “I simply followed up when you didn’t show.”

Stiles scoffs.  “I haven’t ‘showed’ since I got mind-jacked.”

They weren’t even really dates.  But after far too many late-night research binges with only each other for company, it seemed almost natural for Stiles to say yes when Peter offered to take him out for an early breakfast on their way out the door.

Then he kept saying yes, and early breakfasts became regular weekend lunches and the occasional dinner.

And then the Nogitsune happened, Stiles started losing time and blowing Peter off without actually meaning to, and the werewolf only had to take a single look at Stiles after three weeks of radio silence before he was hauling Stiles off to Deaton and Scott and _making_ them listen when they tried to dismiss Peter’s claims.

Peter cornered him the moment Allison was permanently six feet under and told him in no uncertain terms that Peter would be buying coffee the coming Saturday.

Stiles didn’t go.  He was – in fact – already forging his dad’s signature and sending in the necessary forms to grant him permission to take online courses instead of attending school.  And then he left.  Considering the fact that he’s already checked his email and that month’s homework for all his courses is already waiting for him in his inbox, his dad clearly doesn’t give enough of a shit to inform the school about the forgery so long as Stiles stays away and allows the Sheriff some breathing room from screaming nightmares and continuous law-breaking.

Perhaps that’s a bit harsh but, well, considering Stiles’ mom – rightfully – pinned him as a murderer by the age of ten, and then the Sheriff spent the subsequent year and a half alternating between passing out drunk at home and staying late at work, harsh pretty much runs in the family.

A foot nudges his knee, and Stiles blinks back into the present.  He scrubs a hand over his face while his other somehow ends up wrapped around Peter’s ankle.

It’s times like this that makes Stiles wonder if he’s the butt of some cosmic joke, one that makes _Peter Hale_ of all people the only person who cares enough to not only notice his absence but chase after him as well.

The kettle whistles.  Stiles’ hand momentarily tightens around Peter’s ankle before he lets go.

“If you’re staying,” Stiles announces as he gets to his feet.  “Make me dinner.”

Peter grins with a triumphant sort of delight.  “Your wish is my command, sweetheart.”

 

* * *

 

Peter sleeps on the sofa bed because the other bedroom is off-limits.  Even Stiles hasn’t opened it.  He might one day, but not now, and Peter doesn’t even mention it.

The first morning after the werewolf arrived, Stiles goes for a swim again, and Peter joins him.

Stiles can _see_ the flush spread across his own chest when he spots Peter staring unabashedly at him after their swim.

He turns even redder when Peter catches _Stiles_ staring back at the werewolf’s disgustingly perfect physique.

Peter smirks smugly.  Stiles flees back into the cabin to hog the shower first.

 

* * *

 

Stiles spends the afternoon doing homework.  Peter disappears to presumably explore. He comes back smelling like the woods with twigs in his hair and a relaxed, contented air about him, and Stiles isn’t supposed to find that smile-worthy.

 

* * *

 

“Is the duffel bag all you brought?”  Stiles asks over dinner.

Peter shrugs and nods, swallowing his mouthful.  “I decided to travel light.”

“Well, the town isn’t that far away so you can get stuff there if you need anything.”

“Hm, yes, that’s where my car is parked.”

Stiles blinks.  “Oh.”

Peter shoots him a dry look.  “Don’t worry; I crossed the border legally.  It was unbelievably boring.  Nobody was even arrested.”

Stiles snorts.

 

* * *

 

They spend the rest of the evening just enjoying each other’s quiet company.  Stiles doesn’t have a TV but Peter doesn’t seem to mind; he pulls out a book and makes himself comfortable against one end of the couch, pulling Stiles down with him so that their legs can twine in the middle.

“Well aren’t you presumptuous,” Stiles scowls, fidgeting a little until Peter calmly hooks a foot around his ankle to settle him.

The werewolf doesn’t even glance up as he flips a page.  “I’ve missed you, Stiles.  The least you can do is be a little more accommodating.”

Stiles splutters indignantly.  “ _Accommodating?_   Is that what you call this?”

Peter surveys him briefly over the top of his book.  “You can move.”

Stiles splutters again, speechless this time.  Peter goes back to his reading.

A full minute later, Stiles heaves a defeated sigh, cracks open his own book, and doesn’t go anywhere.

A tiny smile curls at Peter’s lips.

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes the next morning, and Peter rises with him.  Their swim is more a playful competition this time when the werewolf manages to goad him into a race, and later, after Stiles gets out of the shower, he smells omelets fresh off the stove.

 

* * *

 

When Peter sets off into the woods again that afternoon, Stiles goes with him.

 

* * *

 

And that’s pretty much how they spend their days, falling into a routine schedule for the next two weeks.

Mostly because it only takes two weeks – two weeks of surreptitious touches and possessive scenting and general pack bonding with no one to interrupt the little haven home they’ve made for themselves – before Peter somehow migrates into Stiles’ bed without Stiles giving actual permission, and the sofa bed is never used again.

 

* * *

 

“I really should kick you out,” Stiles muses, lying on his side with Peter at his back and an arm draped over his waist.

Peter grunts sleepily.  “Maybe, but you won’t.”

Stiles grumbles under his breath but doesn’t deny it.  A cool breeze swirls in through the open window, and a happy rumbling growl echoes from deep in Peter’s chest, vibrating between Stiles’ shoulder blades.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Peter whispers, lips pressing against the back of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles huffs but relaxes anyway, snuggling into Peter without any real conscious thought.

He nods off within minutes, feeling safer than he can ever remember feeling.

He doesn’t dream that night.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is fairly sure that Peter’s somehow conned him into a relationship when he wasn’t paying attention, especially when he wakes up and doesn’t even think anything of it when Peter stirs as well and drops a drowsy good-morning kiss on his lips.

They get up, they go for their morning swim, and then Stiles cooks because it’s his turn to cook.

Then rinse and repeat, yet it never gets dull because the wilderness out here stretches on forever, and Peter coaxes Stiles into talking and smiling and bantering when Stiles once thought he wouldn’t do much of any of that ever again after the Nogitsune.

Stiles thinks they should drive down one of these days, first to fetch Peter’s car, and then to find the closest city so they can buy a pair of kayaks.  Stiles can teach Peter something new, and Peter can prove himself infuriating when he masters it within a week.

All of it is disturbingly domestic.

Stiles can’t bring himself to mind.

 

* * *

 

He came out here to be alone and hopefully find himself again along the way.  He didn’t think he wanted company.

But Peter followed him, and Stiles never actually gets around to telling him to leave.

Maybe a part of Stiles never wanted him to in the first place.

 

* * *

 

Scott texts him one day, sounding perplexed even through letters on a screen, asking why Stiles’ dad just told him that Stiles has moved away for a while, and where is he, and _there’s a new Big Bad in town and the Pack needs some research done and do you know where Peter is while you’re at it because Derek stormed Peter’s apartment and found it empty and when are you coming back Stiles we need you_.

“Should we play white knight?”  Peter enquires, hands settling on Stiles’ hips as his chin dips to rest on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles tosses his phone back on his desk.  “Nah, white doesn’t suit us anyway.  Come on, let’s go kayaking.  Maybe you’ll make it to the next lake this time.”

Peter rolls his eyes and honest-to-god pouts.  Stiles laughs.

Because Peter failing miserably at kayaking – paddling in circles and tipping over into the water – will never not be funny.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	9. A Cliché Love Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cora is more or less comatose, Peter is crashing from an Epinephrine high, and no one else is around to save the day. What else is Stiles supposed to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Preslash, Vampire Stiles, Alpha Peter, Episode s03e10 The Overlooked

 

“Did you hear that?”  Stiles asks three seconds after he sees Peter’s minute head tilt.  Vampire ears are even better than werewolf ears, and Stiles can hear the approaching heartbeat just fine, but there’s the tiny little issue of Peter not knowing what Stiles really is.

Peter glances at him, nodding curtly and already tensing up again, but his expression is strained, and he doesn’t look capable of standing on his own two feet, let alone get into yet another fight with an Alpha werewolf.

There’s a rustle of bushes, followed by a predatory growl, and there’s no mistaking the sadistic underscore of someone closing in on their prey.

Stiles has never been anyone’s prey, thank you very much.  In general, vampires are stronger than werewolves.  Born vampires anyway.  That’s not to say purebloods have never died at the wrong end of a werewolf’s claws, but it would take some truly cunning maneuvering to take even one born vampire down for good.

On the other hand, a Bitten vampire without the necessary training – and therefore feral – would be a much easier target.  The majority of vampires are Bitten and mindless these days, having been attacked by ferals before them, left for dead but turning instead of dying, and then their base instincts take over when no one stays to guide them.

It’s humiliating, really.  Most people who know about the supernatural world don’t even believe vampires can be perfectly sane and reasonable anymore.  The Old Ones and most of their descendants have either died out or shut themselves away in their own little communities around the world, keeping to themselves and feeding on unsuspecting humans but always making sure not to leave a trail.  Stiles hasn’t laid eyes on a _proper_ vampire since his mother was killed.

There’s a loud _thump_ above them, and the heartbeat is directly on top of them now.  He and Peter automatically look up at the ceiling of the ambulance, and Peter’s already struggling to his feet, blue eyes blazing bluer, lips peeled back into a snarl.

But he’s sweating and swaying, and he can’t take a step without clutching unsteadily at the stretcher that Cora is laid out on.

Stiles examines him for a second longer before sighing and grabbing his arm to pull him back down.

Peter’s gaze snaps to his face with a mix of irritation and frustration.  “Stiles-”

“Sit down,” Stiles cuts him off.  “I’ll handle it.”

Before Peter can respond, a bark of female laughter mocks them from outside, and Stiles recognizes Kali.

“‘Handle it’?”  Kali’s voice drips with condescension.  “You three are sitting ducks, and your bravado is laughable at best, boy.”

And then a dark shape swoops towards them, swinging down and in through the open doors of the ambulance.  In the one-point-eight seconds it takes for Kali’s clawed feet to reach Stiles – clearly intending to rip through the supposed human before going for the only conscious werewolf in the enclosed space – Peter lunges to his feet again and snarls at Kali, frigid blue clashing with bloody crimson even as the former tries to yank Stiles back before he got himself mauled.

Stiles rolls his eyes and easily shoves Peter back into his seat with one hand on the guy’s shoulder, simultaneously twisting to meet Kali and – in a blur of movement – catches her by the throat with his other hand and promptly slams her against the nearest wall of the ambulance.

The force of the impact literally rocks the vehicle and puts a dent into the wall where Kali’s been pinned like a mounted butterfly.

Kali chokes, hands instinctively flying up to scrabble uselessly at Stiles’ hand, scratching gouges into skin that heals almost as fast as the injuries are delivered.

Beside him, Peter makes a genuinely shocked noise.  It’s music to Stiles’ ears.  He doesn’t like the fact that he’s outed himself, and to someone like Peter to boot, but if it had to happen, well, at least it gets to be amusing.

“How-” Kali wheezes, still trying to break free, legs kicking before Stiles tightens his grip in warning.  “You’re not- a werewolf!”

Stiles wrinkles his nose.  “Obviously.  I mean I’ve got nothing against werewolves of course – that belief about our blood feud is so overblown – but I’m not all that enthusiastic about the fur and claws and time of the month either.”

He pauses.  Kali continues gasping for oxygen.  Stiles cocks his head, shifting his grip just enough for his thumb to uncover the rapid pulse beating in her throat.

Oh, isn’t that lovely.

His gums itch, but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s control.  He has to be, living in a town where he’s the biggest monster in it.

He turns to look at Peter, who’s staring back with a mix of fascination and wariness.

Stiles smiles.  Out of all the people he has ever met, Peter is the only one who looked at him and saw a threat right from the get-go.

The werewolf’s just getting a clearer picture of that threat now.

“What do you think?”  Stiles muses.  “Leverage?”

Peter’s gaze slides over to Kali, and a dark smirk flits across his face.  “Possible.  We can always kill her later.”

Stiles smiles his agreement and turns back to Kali.  The red in her eyes dims as she loses consciousness, and it’s not long after that before she goes completely limp.

Stiles lets her go, and she slumps to floor in a dead-limbed heap.  He hums, watching the way her head lolls, baring her neck.

Well that’s just unnecessary temptation.

It doesn’t take much strength for him to dig a foot under her ribs and flip her out of the ambulance.  She hits the pavement with a thud, and Stiles retakes his seat, glancing briefly at Cora to make sure she’s still unconscious.

And then he sends a sidelong look over at Peter.  He’s hardly surprised to find the werewolf trying to drill holes into him with the power of his stare alone.

Stiles leans back against the wall of the ambulance.  “Yes?”

Peter cants his head, curiosity evident in every line of his body.  “Blood feud?”

“Mythical,” Stiles assures.  “Unless of course you’re talking about the Vescovi Coven and the Furlan Pack over in Italy; then no, definitely not a myth, they’ve been trying to kill each other off for centuries after Savio Furlan left Carlotta Vescovi at the altar.  Somehow, they still haven’t managed it.  The killing each other off part, I mean.”

Peter’s eyebrows go up but there’s an almost excited gleam of interest in his eyes.  “So the werewolves were the ones who started the blood feud with the…” He sweeps a bold eye up and down Stiles’ frame.  “…vampires?”

Stiles grins, and for just a moment, he flashes a glimpse of fangs at Peter.  “To be fair, it was an arranged marriage, and the whole thing fell through when Savio ran off with the bride’s black sheep of a brother, Pietro Vescovi, on the day of the wedding.”

Surprise washes over Peter’s features before an amused smirk curls at his lips.  “He was gay?”

“Worse; he was in love.  Just with the wrong person.”

“And that’s how the blood feud started?”

Stiles shrugs, smiling faintly.  “Vampires have long memories; we can hold grudges forever, and while werewolves aren’t immortal, they still live pretty long lives.  Even longer back then than they – you guys – do now.  And as I’m sure you’re aware, all packs have records of their family history.  So whatever the reason for that wedding fiasco, both the Vescovis and the Furlans thought they’d been disgraced that day, and they blamed each other and _still_ blame each other to this day.  The Vescovi Coven accused Savio of being an irresponsible heartless bastard to have spurned what amounted to the Vescovi princess in that day and age, while the Furlan Pack pinned everything on Pietro, who was pretty well-known for his… scandals and lack of regard for royal standards befitting someone of his station.  So the Furlans accused Pietro of seducing their prince instead.  It’s an infamous tale of tragic love; any vampire worth anything knows how it goes.  Most werewolves seem to have forgotten it though; there weren’t many wolves in Italy back then.  It’s why the marriage was arranged, to ally the Vescovis and the Furlans so they’d be stronger together.”

Peter’s silent for a long while.  Sometime during Stiles’ impromptu history lesson, the werewolf’s relaxed again.  Or rather, relaxed, _period_.  Peter never actually lowers his guard when he’s around the Pack no matter how he acts on the outside.

Now though…

“Some people believe that the Old Ones are extinct,” Peter continues out of the blue.  “Others believe that they never existed to begin with, and all vampires are nothing but monsters constantly out for blood.”

Stiles’ smile widens.  “And what do you believe?”

Peter scoffs.  “Well I seem to have living proof right in front of me, and I’m hardly one to deny reality.”  He pauses.  “You let me drag you around when I was still the Alpha.  You could’ve killed me anytime.”

Stiles nods once, meeting sharp blue eyes without flinching.  “Who am I to stop you from getting some closure?  I only stepped in when you wouldn’t stop after Kate.  I mean I normally wouldn’t care all that much about a bunch of humans but I do like this town, and Scott isn’t so bad.  His black-and-white naivety can be… grating, I suppose, but he’s a good kid.”

Peter snorts but refrains from commenting, smelling more annoyed than anything else.  “…The Sheriff?”

“Is not actually my biological father, but my mother fell in love with him and decided to stay, so I did too.”  Stiles shrugs again.  “She and I weren’t really part of any huge coven.  We were the nomadic type.  It was just the two of us for a long time.  Before she was killed.”

Peter tosses him a searching look.  “Gerard Argent?”

Stiles grins, and this time, there’s no humour in the display of his fangs and flare of red in his eyes.  “The fool came _back_ after he killed my mother seven years ago.  And then he even tried to _abduct_ me.  And like I said, vampires have long memories.”

They fall silent again.  The air between them is unexpectedly companionable.

“You’re taking this very well,” Stiles remarks, breaking the hush first this time.

Peter looks almost smug.  Definitely satisfied.  “I always knew there was something more to you, Stiles, though your penchant for devotion once you choose to give it and that ruthless mind you have for strategy are both certainly plenty attractive.  You were already worth watching even when I wasn’t quite sure what that extra something was.”

Stiles doesn’t blush – he hasn’t blushed in a _long_ time – but he does stare a bit, mostly at the blend of intrigue and sincerity on Peter’s face.  He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who would compliment him with such honest admiration.

A commotion from the hospital prevents Stiles from coming up with an answer, and the remaining tangle of heartbeats in the building has split in several different directions, two of which is heading this way.

Stiles recognizes Scott.  And he can identify Deucalion.

“What happened,” Peter enquires softly as they both duck out of the ambulance to meet the impending enemy.  “To Savio and Pietro and Carlotta?”

Stiles bounces on the balls of his feet.  The skies are clear tonight, and the moon hangs high and proud.

He turns a sardonic smile on Peter.  “Nobody really knows who the voice behind the hit was.  At that point, both the Vescovis and the Furlans were sending people after them, and the details have gotten muddled, but legend has it that it was Carlotta who ordered the one assassination that ended everything.  A woman scorned and all that.  Either way, Pietro was killed.  And Savio went mad with the loss of his mate.  He lived only long enough to kill the assassin and supposedly Carlotta too, and then he fed himself wolfsbane and followed Pietro.  Carlotta’s death was never verified but there are no records of her after the day Savio died.  And the blood feud has continued between the two families ever since.  The End.”

He stops.  Peter’s lips twist into a smirk, but the mirth there is cynical at best.  “It’s like a cliché love story.”

“A werewolf and a vampire fell in love,” Stiles reminds him dryly.  “Which part of that isn’t already a cliché?”

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than Peter’s gaze catches and holds Stiles’ own, and the air between them thickens with heat and electricity and an unspoken dare.

A sly smile curves Peter’s lips, and Stiles can hear the thrum of the werewolf’s blood.

It isn’t quite _hunger_ he feels now.  Perhaps it’s more… _desire_.

And if Peter’s expression is anything to go by, the feeling is mutual.

And then movement flickers at the corner of Stiles’ eye, and the moment is gone as they both swing around to watch Deucalion’s gallingly arrogant mug approach with a nervous Scott at his side, already looking at Stiles and silently pleading for a way out.

Stiles flexes his hands, and his fangs prickle with the desire to _bite_ and _tear_.

It looks like there will be bloodshed tonight after all.

“History is a bloody canvas,” Stiles murmurs.  “On which the victors paint their triumphs with the colours of their enemies’ lives.”

Peter chuckles and hauls Kali up by her hair.  His strength may still not be entirely restored yet but there's an anticipatory edge in the way he stands.  “I wonder what Deucalion’s colours will be.”

Stiles’ grin matches the ruthlessness in Peter’s cobalt eyes.  “Let’s find out.”

 

* * *

 

The Alpha Pack is slaughtered that very same night, and Jennifer Blake is hunted down and killed.

“Now where were we before Deucalion interrupted?”  Peter purrs as he tosses Jennifer to the ground to join the remains of Kali’s carcass before prowling towards Stiles, who has just finished feeding from Deucalion’s still warm corpse.

Their eyes are as red as each other’s, the colour of the blood they bathed in tonight.

 “Something about clichés?”  Stiles offers before smiling crimson fangs at the approaching werewolf.  “Although personally, I could do without the tragic ending.”

“I’m not too partial to it myself,” Peter agrees, coming to a stop in front of Stiles.  “What would you suggest?”

Stiles smirks, and he rocks forward just enough for their lips to brush, resulting in a growl reverberating deep in Peter’s chest.

“Play your cards right,” Stiles murmurs.  “And you just might find out.”

And then he dashes away through the forest at dizzying speeds, the ring of his laughter trailing behind him.

He doesn’t need to hear the pump of an exhilarated heart or the challenging howl of a werewolf in pursuit to know that Peter has given chase.

There is no prey tonight though.

Only the thrill of the oldest dance in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	10. When is a Monster Not a Monster?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, when you love it._
> 
> _~ Caitlyn Siehl_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Pre-Season/Series 01, Canon Divergence, Preslash, Alcoholism, Neglect, Scars
> 
> \--
> 
> This one’s a bit of a mess but it caters to my love for pre-S1 Stiles-visits-Peter-in-the-hospital fics.

 

The boy is back.  He smells of alcohol and skinned knees and exhaustion, but he takes his usual seat beside Peter’s bed, and he doesn’t voice a word of complaint, choosing instead to huddle close, pale hands wrapping around Peter’s scarred one as he smooshes his face into Peter’s side and just breathes.

That isn’t new either.  The boy always seems to take comfort from the physical proximity, an invisible weight sliding off his shoulders like water, and Peter is glad to give what he can.  He wants to pull the boy into a hug, to scent him and soothe him when he comes in, heartbeat spiking with anxiety.

The boy’s name is Stiles.  Well no, it’s Przemysław, but he goes by Stiles, and Peter met him three years ago when the kid ran into his hospital room stinking of panic and fear and confused hurt, enough of all three to stall Peter’s wolf’s automatic hostility when the boy darted around his bed and crouched down in the space between the wall and Peter’s head, about as far away from the door as anyone could get.

Not that Peter could’ve done much either way – paralyzed and catatonic and packless – but then he heard a rush of footsteps down the hall, and not a second after that, a woman began to scream, shrieking about eyes and danger and how her son was going to kill her.

Even half out of his mind with grief and ever-increasing rage, he could connect the basic dots between the boy hiding in his room and the woman, especially when he picked up the doctors muttering about taking her back to the psychiatric ward.

It was hours before someone came looking for the boy, and by then, Peter’s wolf was more or less at ease with Stiles’ silent presence, miserable and smelling of dried tears but much calmer than when he first came in, so when a nurse burst in and appeared in the corner of Peter’s eye, looking harried and already trying to pull Stiles out of the room with her, Peter’s wolf was up and snarling all over again, more aggressive than ever at the sight of a stranger attempting to drag the pup away.

But there was really nothing Peter’s wolf or Peter himself could do, confined in a bed as he was, so Stiles was hustled out and away, and Peter was left seething on the inside at how useless he’s become.

Just another reason to sink his teeth into Kate Argent’s throat.  Another reason to rip out Laura’s and make Derek pay.

But then Stiles came back.  And he kept coming back, and Peter deduced that – instead of or after visiting his mother – Stiles came to visit him.

Peter didn’t know why.  He still doesn’t, but he’s grateful for it, and it made both him and his wolf happier to know that Stiles must feel safer in his room despite the fact that they don’t know each other, and Peter hasn’t been able to say a single word to the boy in the three years that they’ve spent together.

“I’m fourteen today,” Stiles tells him now when he finally lifts his head from Peter’s stomach but remains leaning forward so Peter can see him instead of just the ceiling.

 _I know.  Happy birthday_ , Peter offers, and he concentrates on tapping the two words out on Stiles’ hand in Morse code just to watch a lopsided smile break out on Stiles’ face.

Stiles didn’t used to talk at the beginning.  Mostly, he just sat on the floor by Peter’s bed with his back against the wall, and he’d stay there until a nurse came to fetch him.

The day his mother died, Stiles shuffled in and spoke his first words, a whispered secret that Peter swore to take to his grave.

_“I killed her.”_

Stiles never mentions it again, but it’s something he confessed only to Peter with dry eyes and a dead voice, and Stiles has become Pack, and Peter will never betray Pack.

After Claudia passed however, Peter spent two weeks fearing the worst – that Stiles would never come back since there was no real reason for him to return.

That another pack member would leave him behind once again.

But Stiles did return, tripping in through the door after two long desolate weeks of Peter waking up each morning and losing a little more hope, and Peter’s wolf was so relieved to see Stiles again – even happier when Stiles slipped a hand into his – that it actually took Peter several minutes before he noticed the foreign scent sticking to Stiles.

That was the first time – but certainly not the last – that Stiles started coming in smelling of alcohol and depression and the rotting stale edge of someone else’s condemnation.

It only took a few more weeks after that – with Stiles visiting every day – for Peter to put the pieces together and realize that that someone else was Stiles’ father.

His wolf raged, wanting retribution and hating that it couldn’t do anything for the pup under its care, and Peter wholeheartedly agreed because it might just be neglect and distance _now_ – and that was bad enough – but it was hardly uncommon for an alcoholic to turn violent.  Peter should know; he used to be a lawyer.

The only debatable saving grace was Stiles telling him every few days that his dad worked late again and didn’t come home.  Peter didn’t much like that either (Picturing Stiles fixing his own dinner was nightmare-inducing because what if something caught on fire while the eleven-year-old was using the stove?), and the loneliness in Stiles’ scent usually became thicker when it happened, but at least it also meant that the Sheriff wasn’t drinking in front of Stiles.

Besides, Stiles always smells less lonely after visiting Peter, and that alone makes Peter’s wolf preen.

Still, he always hated it when it was time for Stiles to leave, hates it even now, but it was worse when Stiles was even younger.  He didn’t like it when the boy was out of his sight, and he was always on high-alert the next day, ready to pick up the tiniest scent of pain or blood.  It hasn’t happened yet, and according to Stiles, the man’s cut back a little on the whiskey, so Peter’s become cautiously optimistic that the Sheriff will _remain_ a workaholic and a civilized alcoholic and nothing more.

That doesn’t mean his wolf doesn’t want to rip out the man’s intestines anyway, but Stiles loves his father, and Peter doesn’t want to upset Stiles, so that particular urge won’t become a reality anytime soon.

Unless of course the good Sheriff one day decides to lay a hand on Stiles.  Then all bets would be off, and as soon as Peter can move again, the man’s job wouldn’t be the only thing he’d be losing.

“It’s Sunday,” Stiles says next, chin resting on Peter’s shoulder now and drawing Peter out of his admittedly murderous thoughts.  “Dad’s got the day off so I cooked us breakfast.”

The murderous thoughts come back with a vengeance.  Stiles _always_ cooks breakfast, and lunch and dinner too – he has since he was eleven, probably even farther back than that – and he sounds _happy_ about it.

“You’re frowning,” Stiles lifts his head a little and pokes Peter’s forehead.  “If you have enough muscle control to frown, you should be working on a smile instead.  Honestly.  What if your face gets stuck this way?”

Peter would very much like to roll his eyes.  His wolf does it for him, flopping down out of sheer exasperation.

Stiles must feel it because he huffs indignantly but grins anyway, and a mental hand reaches across their pack bond to scratch behind Peter’s wolf’s ears.

Peter’s wolf is pathetic and can’t resist ear-scratches, and it ends up growl-purring like some canine version of a large cat, much to Stiles’ impish delight.

Peter knew years ago that there was something special about this boy.  For one, Stiles could feel – and then later access – the pack bond between them once it grew stronger, and even before Peter started communicating with Stiles through Morse code, the boy was already poking curiously at the mental connection between them before throwing himself into research.

Somehow, he managed to come up with _werewolf_ before Peter ever even told him.  Peter was so damn proud that day, and the emotion evidently got through to Stiles because the boy lit up like the sun in response.

Footsteps and a heartbeat approach, and Peter gives Stiles’ hand a squeeze in warning.  Stiles pulls back just as a nurse steps in, smiling brightly at both of them.

“Good morning, Stiles.  I’m just moving Peter to his wheelchair.”

Stiles nods tightly, smiling back politely and watching like a hawk as Peter is maneuvered upright and into the wheelchair.

“I can do the rest,” Stiles hurries to assert like he does every day.  “He likes sitting by the window.”

“Of course,” The nurse steps back indulgently, staying only long enough to shake out the sheets before taking her leave.  She’ll be back later with what passes for breakfast around here.

The collective hospital staff has given up on trying to chase Stiles out, especially since Peter began improving after the boy started coming by.  They feel sorry for both of them, Peter knows, and he wants to sneer at their pity, but if it makes them lenient and allows Stiles to continue visiting, then Peter won’t say a word.

“So,” Stiles begins again, voice dropping even as he opens the window before scooting his chair next to Peter’s and absently retaking his hand.  “I know you told me not to but I looked into the fire anyway-”

Peter’s head jerks, already glaring, and his hand spasms around Stiles’.  _NO._

He’s warned Stiles already, told him not to dig into that without Peter to watch his back, without Peter _able_ to watch his back, _not yet, doesn’t Stiles understand what could happen?_

Peter knows he won’t survive the loss of another packmate, doubly so when it’s Stiles because Stiles is everything now.

“I’ve been careful,” Stiles hurries to assure, and his eyes burn with a terrible sort of resolve.  “But I can’t just do nothing, you know?  What if Kate comes back for you?  I can’t- I’m _fourteen_ ; what can I do to protect you if she or some other hunter tries to kill you?  And I can’t-”

He takes a shuddering breath, and Peter closes his eyes for a moment before opening them again and giving Stiles’ hand a weak tug.  Stiles is already leaning in, and Peter feels himself calm as Stiles presses his cheek against Peter’s scarred one, letting Peter breathe his natural scent in, lemon and coffee and clear skies after a storm.

“You saved me, you know,” Stiles murmurs into his ear as he worms an arm behind Peter’s shoulders.  “I never- I never told you but- I don’t know how many times I had a handful of my mother’s old pills in front of me, and I thought about it, but then I’d remember you, and I knew you were waiting for me to visit again, and I thought about how you’d feel if I just up and disappeared, and that’s always been enough to make me put the pills away again.  So… So you saved me, and I just want to do something for you in return.”

Peter’s throat is tight, and there’s an unfamiliar sting in his eyes.  He can’t speak anyway but…

He grits his teeth and _forces_ his arm to move, just enough to drape it halfway around Stiles’ back.

Stiles jumps a little in surprise before burying his face against Peter’s neck.

_You’ve already saved me.  You don’t need to repay me.  We’re Pack.  I can’t lose you._

It takes an annoying amount of time but Peter taps all of that out against the small of Stiles’ back.  It’s worth the effort when he feels Stiles’ weak smile on his skin.

 _Please wait for me_ , Peter continues insistently, and he pulls on Stiles’ shirt until the boy sits back and Peter can look him in the eye.

Stiles’ chin dips, and he glances away before looking back and nodding once.  “Okay.”

His heart skips.  Peter glowers.

Stiles bites his lip, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look contrite.  “It’s just- The thing is, I kind of already stole the Hale case from my dad’s office and made a copy.  Do I have to get rid of it or can I at least look through it and tell _you_ about any red flags I might find?”

Peter would groan if he could.  His human is too curious for his own good.

Stiles grins and promises, “I’ll be careful, and the report will be the extent of my investigation until you’re back on your feet.  Okay?”

Peter sighs.  Does he have a choice?

 _Be careful_ , he taps out on Stiles’ palm.

Stiles smiles at him, softer than the hard edges that life has carved into him would suggest him capable of.  “Always.”

 

* * *

 

Five months later, Peter says his first words since the fire.  Stiles stumbles in with a black eye, and Peter’s lips peel back into a snarl as he rasps out, “I’ll kill him.”

Stiles freezes for all of two seconds before his grimace turns into a grin, and he bounces over to Peter, exuding enough joy to temporarily appease Peter’s fury.

“Peter, you can finally talk!”  The boy exclaims, stooping down to scent him in greeting before pulling back to flail excitedly some more.  “This is great!  I’ve only been waiting forever.  I guess we should call the nurse and-”

“Stiles!”  Peter interjects hoarsely, extending a hand to fist Stiles’ shirt and yank him down again so he can scent the boy more thoroughly and maybe possibly sneakily erase the other foreign smells clinging to Stiles after a day at school.

Stiles should only smell like him.  Them.

And then he takes another good look at Stiles’ face.  “I’ll _eviscerate_ him.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, tossing his backpack to the floor before taking a seat across from Peter.  “You don’t even know who did it.”

“I can smell that Whittemore brat all over you,” Peter growls.

Stiles winces a little.  “It’s not how you think it is.  You know I can handle anything Jackson tries to dish out.”

Peter arches a demanding eyebrow.

Stiles heaves a put-upon sigh and slouches in his seat.  “You remember that new kid I told you about years ago?  The one who moved to Beacon Hills a few months after my mom died?”  His mouth twists but at least his scent doesn’t sour.  “Scott McCall?”

Peter nods.  He recalls a brief mention of the boy.  Stiles brought it up when a new nurse – Melissa, Scott's mother – did Peter’s usual nurse’s rounds for a week when the latter was down with the flu.

“Well Scott has asthma,” Stiles explains.  “And Jackson stole his inhaler today when he was having an attack, and Scott’s best friend Isaac isn’t much of a fighter and got knocked on his ass when he tried to get the inhaler back.”

“So you stepped in,” Peter finishes.  “That isn’t like you.”

Stiles snorts.  “I’m pretty sure that doesn’t say good things about my character.”

Peter shrugs.  “It’s self-preservation; only fools would scorn that.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles scowls.  “I couldn’t really just walk by.  I mean, everyone was just standing around laughing.  Isaac was being pinned down by one of Jackson’s cronies.  Literally; the asshole had a foot on Isaac’s stomach.  And Scott looked like he was ten seconds away from needing an ambulance.  So I got into a fistfight with Jackson.”

He flashes a smirk.  “I won, you know.  I got a black eye but I also got the inhaler back for Scott first before I broke Jackson's nose, cracked at least two of his ribs, and fucked up his knee.  He won’t be playing lacrosse again for a good two months.”

Oh.  Well in that case…

Peter glances at Stiles’ backpack.  “How much trouble are you in?”

Stiles scoffs.  “Are you kidding?  Jackson won’t tattle.  Neither will his friends.  Getting beaten up by the outcast of BHS is bad enough, and they know I have enough dirt on them to ruin their social lives if they try to go to a teacher for something _they_ started.”

He cocks his head in thought.  “I guess I could’ve gone with the blackmail first but I’ve been looking for a reason to punch Jackson in the face for a while now.”

Peter smirks.  And then he coughs, and Stiles is scrambling to his feet again for some water.

“So Jackson aside,” Stiles says after Peter’s downed half a glass of water.  His expression turns hopeful.  “How are you doing with walking?”

Peter hesitates.  “A few more weeks at least, Stiles.”

Stiles tries to hide it but Peter can smell the disappointed despondency on him.

“Well, you’re already healing a lot faster than anyone expected, even me,” Stiles smiles, and the encouragement there is as sincere as it’s always been when it comes to Peter’s wellbeing.

The light in his eyes is dimmer though, and his gaze goes distant when he looks out the window.  Peter studies him for a moment before reaching for the boy’s hand.  “Stiles?”

Stiles glances back at him.  “Um… My dad’s been telling me I should stop coming to see you.”

Peter’s eyes flare electric blue.  Stiles shrugs helplessly.  “I know, I’m not going to.  But we’ve been fighting about it.  He says it’s not healthy for me.”

“His alcoholism isn’t healthy for you,” Peter snaps scathingly.  “Nor is his workaholic tendencies or his lack of ability to cook or his emotional unavailability or his penchant for spending more nights at the station than he does in his own house or even his inability to take care of himself so you wouldn’t have to stress over his health.  Has he gotten around to fixing any of that yet?”

Stiles flinches.  Peter’s lips thin but he wrestles down the rest of his harsh criticism.

“He’s busy with cases,” Stiles mutters, and it’s nothing Peter hasn’t heard before.  “He isn’t just responsible for this town, you know.  As Sheriff, he’s responsible for the whole county, and that takes up a lot of time.  Besides, I can take care of myself.”

Peter exhales a sharp breath through his nose.  There’s no point scolding Stiles.  Stiles isn’t the one who’s done anything wrong.

“I’ll work harder on getting back on my feet,” Peter quietly promises.  “Meeting outside of the hospital would be easier.  In fact, I can just go over to your house whenever your father isn’t home.”

Stiles quirks another half-smile.  “You should heal at your own pace.  I didn’t mean to whine.”

Peter understands, and Stiles is hardly whining.  The boy spends so much of his time with Peter though that he doesn’t have any friends.  He doesn’t have anyone except Peter and an absentee father, and logically, Peter knows that that’s not exactly a balanced lifestyle, when Stiles’ closest relationship is a codependent one with a crippled thirty-two-year-old werewolf.

But Peter’s never been a good man.  And the only reason he isn’t a downright monster – isn’t plotting murder and obsessing over vengeance and letting his resentment towards Laura and Derek consume him – is because of Stiles.  He needs Stiles like he needs air, and when it comes down to it, he isn’t willing to let anyone else stake a claim on his packmate.

Besides, Stiles is happy enough here with him.  And Peter will make him even happier once he’s out of this damn hospital and can better provide for Stiles.

“Do you think my dad might be right though?”  Stiles suddenly asks, and Peter follows his line of sight down to where their fingers are twined together.  Even without looking, he can sense the boy’s rueful smile.  “I mean, this isn’t exactly…”

The only word Peter has ever been able to come up with to describe Stiles is _Pack_.  He isn’t just a friend but he isn’t old enough to be anything more just yet either, especially in the eyes of the law – human or supernatural – and Peter isn’t willing to push when it comes to something that important.  Stiles will decide for himself, and if – one day – _mate_ comes up, it’ll just mean adding another layer to their relationship.

But even without that, he’s still everything to Peter, and to Peter, _Pack_ encompasses everything.

“No, it isn’t,” Peter acknowledges in such solemn tones that it makes Stiles look up again.  “Does it matter?”

Stiles stares at him for a long minute.  And then he smiles again, and it goes all the way to his eyes.  “No.  Not to me.”

Peter smiles back, and in his head, his wolf howls with possessive triumph.

 

* * *

 

The day Peter is well enough to check himself out of the hospital, it’s three-and-a-half years after he met Stiles and four years after the fire.

Stiles hovers at his side all the way to the jeep, and then he drives them back to Stiles’ place.

Peter cooks them lunch.  He’s wanted to for years, to take care of Stiles the way he deserves to be taken care of.

And when Peter sits down, Kate Argent is the last thing on his mind.  Those responsible for the murder of his family will be dealt with, but for now, with a hot meal on the table and Stiles beaming softly at the spread, his scent full of relaxed contentment, Peter can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	11. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is always more instinctual as an animal, and Stiles suddenly can’t remember why following Peter’s scent might be a bad idea. Peter’s been nice to him, dropping by to keep him company and cooking for him like he knows Stiles isn’t taking care of himself properly. And he smells good, like comfort and safety and Pack. So it’s only natural for Stiles to track Peter down when he’s small and furry and all alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Werefox Stiles, Alpha Stiles, Fluff

 

It’s nighttime.  Stiles can’t sleep even though he just pulled three consecutive all-nighters doing research for Scott on the latest Big Bad.  He’s exhausted but restless, and anxiety prickles just beneath his skin.

The house is dark and empty.  His father is on night shift again, Scott is dating Allison again, and Stiles is alone.

Again.

He rolls over for the umpteenth time – blankets long since kicked away to the end of his bed – and reaches for his phone.

He thinks about calling Peter.  The werewolf’s been coming over a lot.  The first six times were more ‘invasions’ than ‘visits’, with Peter knocking on Stiles’ bedroom window and somehow snarking his way inside while Stiles was occupied with snarking back, and they’d end up spending an hour or two bickering about Peter’s stalking habits or Stiles’ homework, often followed by a discussion on whatever Stiles was researching that week.

And then Peter showed up at Stiles’ front door the seventh time with curly fries and burgers and an old tome on vampires, and Stiles made the mistake of inviting him in.

He’s lost count of the number of times Peter’s visited since then, never when the Sheriff is home but enough for Stiles’ bedroom to smell like Stiles-and-Peter and no one else.

It’s a problem.  Especially since Peter coming over is a highlight in Stiles’ life these days.  He’s always looking forward to seeing the werewolf outside of pack meetings, mostly because Stiles doesn’t really like staying at the loft for long periods of time when everyone else is there too.

The place gives Stiles the sense that he’s stuck in a den full of outsiders.  Scott smells familiar of course, but these days, Scott also smells like Allison a _lot_ , as well as the other pack members to a lesser degree, and Stiles hates how wary that makes him.  He started sitting beside Peter several weeks ago when they’re both there, and that makes the meetings a little better, but that also produces the unwanted side-effect of getting whiffs of disapproval from Scott and everyone else.

Like he said, it’s a problem, in more ways than one.

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.  It’s the middle of the night; he shouldn’t call Peter because the werewolf’s probably asleep.

He rolls onto his stomach and buries his face in his pillow.  It still smells a bit like Peter because the man fell asleep here last week on the night of the full moon, and Stiles cooked them both breakfast the morning after.

The fact that Peter trusts him enough to fall asleep around him should not please him as much as it does.

But even that memory can’t pacify him right now.  His head feels cluttered with a dozen different thoughts, there’s a headache throbbing behind his eyes, his skin feels too tight, the breeze drifting in through the open window is calling to him instead of soothing him, and pillow or no pillow, he feels like he can’t breathe either way.

Everything is too much.

He rolls over once more, right off his bed and onto the ground, and in the time it takes to fall, he lets his other half take over, shrinking into his shirt, sprouting fur and sharper teeth, and when he lands, it’s on four paws instead of hands and knees.

He can hear so much better like this, picking up everything from the scuttle of a rodent underground in the backyard to the electrical current running through his laptop charger.

He squirms out of his human clothes and hops up onto the bed, ears swiveling a little as he adjusts to his heightened senses.

He’s been coming and going from this house as a fox for years so it’s easy enough to leap from bed to nightstand to windowsill, and then using the tree outside to make his way back down to flat ground.

The cool night air feels like freedom, and Stiles takes a moment to simply savour all the smells around him.  He breathes in, deep and slow, and then his ears perk up.

He can smell a familiar blend of cinnamon, tea, clear winter mornings, and wolf – _Peter_.

But Peter isn’t here.  However, the werewolf’s visited Stiles so many times – cautious enough not to take his car – that the trail between Stiles’ house and Peter’s apartment can’t possibly be clearer.

And Stiles is alone and lonely despite shedding his human skin, and all he wants now is Pack.

And typically, he’d head for the forest after shifting, but Pack means Peter, so he needs to track down Peter.

Anyone looking out their window at that precise moment would see the rather odd sight of a fennec fox trotting down the sidewalk at a brisk determined pace, staying away from the streetlights but making a beeline downtown anyway.

 

* * *

 

Stiles does make one detour along the way, circling into a part of the forests surrounding Beacon Hills to hunt down a rabbit first.

After all, it’s only proper to bring his packmate some food.  He can’t just show up and barge in like he’s incapable of providing for his Pack; that’s plain bad manners.

Rabbits are easy to catch.  They’re generally fat and slow, especially this time of the year, and Stiles is soon on his way to Peter’s den once more, a rabbit clamped between his teeth.  It’s a bit heavy – he isn’t used to carrying his prey over long distances – but he manages.

A raccoon melts out of the darkness once, looking to challenge him for his kill, but Stiles doesn’t let it get even that far.  He may be small but he isn’t _just_ a fox, and even the raccoon – bigger and bulkier – can sense that.  It hangs back, flinching when Stiles flashes red eyes at it, and it doesn’t stop him when he continues onwards.

Then he reaches the busy parts of town, and everything gets infinitely harder.

 

* * *

 

There are cars and pollution and bright lights and buildings, and Stiles hates everything.  The dumpsters are disgusting, the back alleys are revolting, and nothing smells natural.

Why would anyone want to live here?  Why would _Peter_ want to live here?

The crackle of electricity from so much technology makes his ears flatten against his head.  He even contemplates turning around.

He huffs through his mouthful of rabbit.  He’s already come this far.

He can’t smell Peter anymore so he’ll have to rely on his human side.  He squints at street signs and stores, recalling the route to Peter’s den.

He almost gets hit by vehicles three times, and once, a huge mangy rat leaps out at him, teeth bared.

Stiles drops his kill, whirls on the rat with red eyes and a snarl, and his claws lash out and tear open the rat’s throat before it can get anywhere near biting distance.

Peter better appreciate his stupid rabbit.

 

* * *

 

Stiles meets another problem once he finally gets to Peter’s house.

He can’t reach the doorbell.

He has a key, but that’s back in his bedroom, and he can’t hold a key like this anyway.  And the doorknob’s too high.

Stiles growls.  He puts down the rabbit again and thumps a paw against the door.  The impact isn’t very loud.

He butts his head against the wood next.  That doesn’t make much noise either.

So he resorts to howling as stridently as his lungs can manage right under Peter’s window.

There’s a rustling commotion from inside the den, followed by a series of rapid footsteps.

Stiles preens proudly before picking up his kill again and moving to sit in front of the door.

Three seconds later, the locks turn, and the door eases open.

Blue eyes peer out, nostrils already flared.  A puzzled frown creases Peter’s face when he looks both ways and sees no one.

From down, down, down below, Stiles rolls his eyes and pats one paw against one of Peter’s bare feet.

Peter’s head snaps down, and if he were anyone else, Stiles knows the werewolf would’ve jumped a foot in the air.

As it is, Peter’s scent turns citrus with surprise, and his eyes go wide with astonishment.  He inhales again.  “… _Stiles?_ ”

Stiles releases a muffled bark of impatient confirmation.

He’s tired and a bit hungry, and his jaws are beginning to ache.  All he wants now is for Peter to let him in so he can curl up on top of his packmate and get some sleep.

Peter must sense at least some of what Stiles is feeling because he’s quick to step back and let Stiles through.  Stiles waits only long enough for Peter to close the door, and then he lays the rabbit out at Peter’s feet before blinking expectantly up at the werewolf.

Peter looks from Stiles to the rabbit and then back to Stiles.  And then a huff of laughter escapes Peter’s mouth before he’s bending down at last so that Stiles doesn’t have to crane his head up so much.

“Thank you,” Peter tells him, one hand extending towards Stiles.  The appendage hovers in front of him as if Peter’s waiting for permission so Stiles nuzzles at his palm and presses even closer when the werewolf starts petting him.

“So,” Peter continues quietly, tugging gently at one of Stiles’ ears with an air of growing amusement underscored by wonder.  “A fennec fox.  Somehow, I’m actually not that surprised.  You always did smell a bit like fox, and now I know why.”

He pauses, scratching under Stiles’ chin.  When Stiles begins to purr, a rare, helpless smile spreads across Peter’s face.  “You’re very cute.”

Stiles nips at one of Peter’s fingers for that.  He isn’t _cute_.  Alphas aren’t cute.

Oh.  Right.

He pulls back and lets his eyes bleed red.  Peter’s eyebrows shoot up in response.

“Hm,” Peter scritches behind one of his ears, and Stiles instantly melts again, eyes going half-lidded with pleasure.  “No wonder you’ve never submitted to anyone.  Still, an Alpha _fennec fox_ is a bit… unorthodox.”

The werewolf runs a hand down the length of Stiles’ body before giving more chin-scratches.  Stiles tilts his head back to enjoy them better, only darting an enquiring look at Peter when he hears the man’s breath hitch.

A thumb brushes over the line of Stiles’ delicate throat.

Ah.  That’s why.

But…

With deliberate intent, Stiles leans further into Peter’s hand.  Peter is Pack, and Stiles trusts Pack.  It’s why he made the journey here tonight, when he didn’t want to be alone and lonely.

Peter sighs, and the sound is a bit resigned and a bit exasperated, but his scent brightens with happiness at the same time.

“Let me put the rabbit away,” The werewolf tells him, retrieving his hand, much to Stiles’ disappointment.  “We can eat it later.  You must be tired; I expected you to be dead to the world after the past few days.”

Within minutes, the rabbit is stashed away in the fridge, and then Peter is scooping Stiles up into his arms before they head straight to bed.

Peter doesn’t hesitate to shed his clothes once they’re in the man’s bedroom, and a moment later, a hulking dark grey wolf stands in his place.  Peter lies down on the bed in a heap of muscle and fur, and Stiles is quick to wriggle his way into the pile, circling once before curling right up against Peter’s side, all but swallowed by the wolf’s sheer size.

A tongue rasps a few times over Stiles’ fur, and Stiles starts purring again, his large ears flicking once as he settles down, already feeling drowsy.

An answering rumble of a purr reverberates in Peter’s own chest, and Stiles can feel the werewolf tucking him impossibly closer.

The anxiety that was lurking under his skin earlier is a distant memory.  He’s warm and comfortable with Peter wrapped around him, perfectly safe with the solidness of Pack beside him, and for now, that’s all that matters.

 

* * *

 

(Stiles is very human and very naked when he wakes up in the morning, twined together with an equally human and naked Peter.

Needless to say, he flails and screeches his way off the bed, Peter the asshole laughs his ass off _in_ bed, and once the memories of last night floods back to the forefront of his mind, Stiles has to wonder what the _hell_ his fox was thinking outing them the way it did.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Peter assures, reaching down to drag Stiles back into bed with him just to cuddle him close.  “I thought you were absolutely adorable.”

Stiles throws decorum out the window and bites Peter on the shoulder.

Peter just laughs again before a wicked grin replaces it, and in the blink of an eye, he flips them over so that Stiles is lying underneath him instead, fetchingly pink and suddenly breathless.

They don’t leave the bed that day until well into the afternoon.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	12. Jacks of Diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is never doing another ‘favour’ for Talia again.  True, the man – practically still a boy – currently pointing a gun at Peter’s head is very easy on the eyes, all pale skin and bright amber eyes and pouty lips, but at the same time, he’s also, you know, _pointing a gun at Peter’s head_.  And smiling all the while like he isn’t holding an entire jewelry store hostage under threat of death.
> 
> (Peter may or may not find him terribly attractive because of it anyway.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Human AU, Thieves AU, Thief Stiles, Thief Peter

 

“My thanks, miss,” The boy grins as the salesclerk finishes depositing the last of the diamonds into the duffel bag he handed her earlier.  She trembles as she passes it back to him and hastily flattens herself onto the floor again when the boy gestures down with a tip of his head.  “Now if everyone would just stay put until I’m out the door, then we’ll all walk away unhurt, and you lot will have a new exciting tale to tell at your next family barbecue.”

The boy is in his early twenties perhaps, and he looks it, could probably pass as a teenager if he wanted to.  He’s been smiling since he strode in and cheerfully asked everyone to get down on the ground before proceeding to rob the bank.

In general, he doesn’t seem _that_ dangerous aside from the gun in his hand.  He looks like the type of person you’d find having a night out at a bar with his friends or studying in a college library.  He’s even wearing casual jeans and an awful plaid shirt and does not seem at all like a jewel thief.

So nine out of ten people wouldn’t register him as a threat.  But from the moment he walked in and fired a single shot into the air to grab everyone’s attention, Peter’s noticed the way he never strays near the windows just in case, the way he produced a syringe and drugged the only security guard instead of keeping his attention split between the robbery and potential human stupidity should the guard try to play hero, and even the way he orders the salesgirl to gather up all the jewels, including the new ones in the back vault that just came in, which can only mean that he cased the place out thoroughly beforehand.

But it’s the way he took one look around and immediately put Peter at gunpoint that clinches his competence, and as the young thief slings the duffel bag over one shoulder and turns for the front door with a smirk, he pauses in front of Peter, gun hand steady but out of arm’s reach nonetheless.

“Peter Hale,” The boy murmurs, voice generously pitched too low for anyone else in the store to hear, and the surprisingly honest respect lacing his tone makes Peter smile in spite of himself.  “The Hales’ Shadow Wolf.  I admire your work.  The Hope Diamond was especially lovely.”

Peter’s mouth curves into a sharp smirk.  “The police assured the public that that particular theft attempt failed.  It was on every news channel.”

The boy chuckles.  “I know a fake when I see one.  Besides, are you trying to tell me that the security on the Hope Diamond was too much for you?”

Peter cocks his head, eyeing the boy intently.  “Are you trying to tell me it _wasn’t_ too much for you?”

Because the only way the boy can really be _sure_ that the Diamond isn’t the genuine article is if he got his hands on it himself.

The boy only shrugs, glancing briefly at his watch before resuming his exit.  “I’m good at what I do, Mr. Hale, and the Hope Diamond was always on my bucket list, but I suppose it just wasn’t meant to be.  Now, as much as I want to chat with you some more, you’ll understand if I cut our conversation short.”

He reaches the door and flashes one last grin.  “Guess I beat you this time.  I look forward to gate-crashing another one of your jobs someday.”

And then he’s gone, slipping out the door just as a gaggle of university students and office assistants on their lunch breaks pass by, and within seconds, the boy blends seamlessly into the crowd and even Peter loses sight of him between one blink and the next.

The entire heist took less than fifteen minutes.  There are no bodies, the police weren’t called, and Peter himself couldn’t have staged the robbery any more smoothly.

So that’s the increasingly famous Chameleon that quite a few people in the criminal underworld has taken an interest in.

Peter has been more focused on trying to find a nice way to cut ties with the Hale Family without turning his sister’s wrath on him, but now…

The police and an ambulance arrive fifteen minutes later.  Peter charms his way through giving a statement, and he almost laughs when he overhears one officer muttering about all the cameras being down and all the alarms being switched off during the time of the heist.

But now, Peter is interested too.

 

* * *

 

As luck would have it, they meet again when Peter is in the process of running from the assassins that Talia has sent after him.  She wasn’t too happy about his failure at that last jewelry store even though he _warned her_ about the possibility of other thieves since she didn’t give him the necessary information sooner, and she was even less happy when Peter decided to inform her that he’ll be striking out on his own instead of continuing to work for the family.

Peter is Talia’s best thief, and one of the best in the world.  It’s probably the only reason she keeps him around; they barely get along otherwise.  Peter hates being kept on a short leash, only taking jobs that Talia gives him, and his sister doesn’t think his leash is short enough, especially since half the things he steals have a habit of ending up in his private collection rather than in the Hale vaults.

And now that he’s decided to cut his ties, all the jewels and gems and precious stones that he never saw fit to share with his family all leave with him.

If he survives long enough anyway.  He knows better than anyone how much of a bitch Talia can be, and she’s made sure that practically every ally he could go to for assistance will have blacklisted him by now.

He’s trying to lose a tail when a blue jeep – old but well taken care of by the looks of it – trundles up beside him, and he almost does a double-take when the window rolls down and Chameleon’s face peers out.

“So,” The boy smiles, impish and sly.  “Word on the street has it that Peter Hale is a free man.”

“Peter Hale would very much _like_ to be a free man,” Peter corrects him, an inkling of what the boy wants dawning in his mind.  “I don’t suppose you have a solution?”

Chameleon doesn’t beat around the bush.  “You need a place to lie low for a while.  I have a place I can offer you for however long you need it.”

“And in return,” Peter’s mouth twists.  “I work for you?”

“You work _with_ me,” Chameleon looks faintly amused now.  “I’m self-employed, and I prefer working alone; no bosses, no subordinates.  But I told you before – I admire your work.  I’d love to pull off a few jobs with you.  Say, half a dozen?  In exchange, I’ll give you a home for however long you need one.  Seems like a pretty good deal to me.”

It does.  It’s a better deal than Peter expected.

He sends a lengthy, assessing look at Chameleon.  The boy smirks like he knows Peter’s already decided.

“Do I get a name?”  Peter asks at last, and it’s as good as an agreement.

Chameleon’s eyes gleam with a familiar sort of triumph that Peter is more used to seeing in his own eyes.  “My friends call me Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Peter echoes, and he thinks he likes the taste of it on his tongue.  “Six jobs.”

“And not a single more,” Stiles nods before unlocking the passenger door.  “Hop in, Mr. Hale.”

Peter doesn’t hesitate, and just in time too when the black car that’s been following him since he checked out of that last hotel rounds a corner and speeds right past Stiles’ jeep without so much as slowing down.

Chameleon indeed.

Peter recalls the jewel heist that Stiles managed to pull off so meticulously.  Five people saw his face, and not a single one of their testimonies could lead the police back to Stiles, though admittedly, Peter didn’t spill _everything_ he knew about the person in question.

There’s honour among thieves, after all.  Most of the time.

“Call me Peter,” Peter offers.  He tilts his head and studies his new partner-in-crime.  “Do you have our first job lined up?”

Stiles hums noncommittally but there’s a wicked light in his eyes.  “How do you feel about yellow diamonds?”

Peter’s eyebrows slowly rise.  “…You want the Cora Sun-Drop Diamond?”

There is something dark in Stiles’ smile, one that matches the one growing on Peter’s own face.  “I think _you_ want it even more.”

Stiles isn’t wrong.  Stealing the Cora Sun-Drop Diamond from the Hale vaults – _right after Peter walked out on them to boot_ – is like a big fuck-you to Talia, who’s been saving that particular diamond as a gift for her youngest daughter once the girl pulls off her first successful job.

Peter’s lips curl into a smirk.  “I think we’re going to get along famously, Stiles.”

Stiles just laughs as he turns onto the highway, and with the wind in their hair, and his prospects finally looking up, Peter can see the road ahead stretch out towards the horizon in more ways than one.

 

* * *

 

Six jobs later – full of late-night plans over hot chocolate and snarky back-and-forth strategic discussions and six thrilling heists carried out so effortlessly between the two of them that it was like they could read each other’s minds – Peter says, “One more?”

Stiles grins like it was his plan all along to woo Peter onto his side.  “One more.”

 

* * *

 

One more blurs into countless more, and even after the heat dies down, and Talia probably wants Peter’s head on a platter, Peter never mentions moving out, and Stiles never asks if he _wants_ to move out.

They’re sharing a bed in less than a year, lives irrevocably and happily entwined, and Peter knows that taking Stiles up on his offer was the best decision he has ever made and will ever make.

 

* * *

 

Ten years down the road, you can ask anyone; they’ll all tell you that the elusive Chameleon and his equally elusive Guardian Wolf are the best pair of thieves you’ll ever be able to find in the world.

Find, but never catch.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	13. Friend in a Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets his hands on Stiles’ lamp.
> 
> \--
> 
> “Contrary to popular belief, genies can’t grant _any_ wish, you know.”
> 
> “So are you telling me world domination’s _not_ on the table then?”
> 
> “…Kid, why do you even want world domination? You’re what, eight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Gen, Genie Stiles, Child Peter
> 
> Something tiny while I’m kicking back in Pender Harbour.

 

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and then opens them again.

The kid is still pouting, arms crossed and frowning sulkily at Stiles, one fang poking out in what the boy probably thinks is supposed to make him look intimidating.

In Stiles’ opinion, it just sort of makes him look like a brat. A cute brat but a brat nonetheless.

“I’m _nine_ ,” The boy informs him, like that’s supposed to be any better than eight.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles arches an unimpressed eyebrow from where he’s floating above the lamp sitting on the forest floor in front of his latest – and youngest – master. “And at nine, you want to rule the world because…?”

The kid scowls even harder. “What does it matter why? You can’t do it anyway. You’re not very good at your job.”

This _brat_.

“Listen, kid,” Stiles huffs, trying to remind himself that this is a nine-year-old werewolf boy and that he shouldn’t be picking fights with him. “I guarantee you can ask any genie in existence and they’ll all tell you that they can’t make you king of the world either. They can give you a dream or a hallucination that will last until you die, but none of them can _really_ make something that ridiculous happen.”

The kid’s shoulders slump, and now Stiles feels kind of bad.

He sighs. “Look, world domination isn’t as nice as it sounds anyway. There’d be a whole bunch of assassination attempts on your life all the time because people just don’t like being ruled over, and can you imagine the amount of paperwork the job would generate? Nobody would be happy. It’s totally not worth the trouble.”

The boy just glares mulishly at him. “How would you know? You just said you _can’t_ grant world domination.”

Stiles sneers back, all goodwill dissipating like mist at high noon. “And you think my kind _likes_ serving arrogant snots like you?”

The kid scrunches his nose. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Stiles’ jaw tightens. He thinks of the druid – a goddamn _human_ – who enslaved his people oh so long ago and forced them to bow to _mortals_. “Nothing. Pick another wish, pipsqueak. You’ve still got three so what do you want? Good grades? Be the strongest werewolf in the world?” He smirks. “Add some height to your size?”

The boy’s eyes flare gold, and before Stiles can blink, his new master’s snatched up Stiles’ lamp again.

“I don’t want to pick anything right now,” The kid announces petulantly, and before Stiles can even squawk a protest, he’s being sucked back into the lamp, locked up tight again once more.

He slumps against one lavishly cushioned wall in the interior of his cage.

He hates his life.

But he’s hated it for centuries and nothing’s changed. Genies are still slaves, and people are still greedy.

This boy is just another master, just another three-wish job.

Stiles doubts he’ll be any more interesting than all the others that have stumbled across his lamp.

 

* * *

 

He’s summoned again who-knows-how-long later, but he supposes it can’t be that long because the boy looks to be about the same age as last time.

“Help me with this,” The kid demands, pointing at an open textbook on his desk.

Stiles glances around the quaint little bedroom before focusing on the boy again. “Is that your wish? To get better grades?”

The kid glares at him. “No! I just want you to help me with this bit. I’m not _stupid_. I just don’t get this part.”

Stiles doesn’t budge an inch. “Is that your wish? You want my… assistance on this piece of homework?”

The kid’s lips peel back in a childish snarl of aggravation, but after a moment of thought, he reluctantly nods once. “I guess. But not just this piece of homework. That’s too small a wish. You have to assist me with any homework I want help on.”

Stiles scoffs. “Until you reach middle school.”

“High school,” The kid swiftly bargains back, and if he doesn’t become a lawyer one day, Stiles will be shocked, and he hasn’t been shocked in a very long time.

But he supposes high school sounds fair. He agrees with a nod of his own, snapping his fingers and feeling the subsequent magic swirl around them as the contract binds Stiles to his master’s wish. “Done. What are you having trouble with then?”

“You have to sit here first,” The kid orders, motioning at the second chair beside the one he’s sitting on.

Stiles levels a searching look on the boy, who suddenly won’t meet his gaze, pretending to flip through several pages of his notebook instead.

Hm.

He sits. Well, sort of. It isn’t as if he really has an ass to sit on since everything from his waist down is more or less ghost-like despite also being corporeal, so he mostly just drifts in place beside the boy.

“Now how do I do this?” The kid asks imperiously, and Stiles heaves a sigh and starts reading.

 

* * *

 

“Why did you want world domination?” Stiles enquires idly on the four-hundred-and-twenty-seventh time his master calls him.

The boy – Peter, as Stiles has inevitably learned – stiffens in his seat. “It was just a kid thing. Why are you bringing it up? You’re supposed to be helping me figure out this equation.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, not bothering to lift his head from where he’s propped it up with one loose fist. “Peter, who do you think you’re kidding? You don’t need my help; you understand this stuff perfectly.”

He watches with some amusement as Peter’s ears slowly flush red.

“You know,” He continues. “If you wanted some company, you could’ve just said so.”

The grip Peter has on his pencil turns white-knuckled, and against his better judgement, Stiles feels his heart soften. “I mean, I can’t complain. Even hanging around you is better than being stuck in that lamp.”

Peter swings his legs a bit. A little of the tension in his shoulders drains away.

The kid has no friends. Stiles doesn’t think so anyway since Peter almost always summons him during lunch, and they eat alone and snark at each other while pretending to go over Peter’s English homework.

Peter’s on that basketball team of his at school now, and he’s _good_. Too good. That will gain him admiration and idiots trying to ingratiate themselves to him once he’s grown up a bit, but right now, all he’ll get is animosity and immature jealousy.

He’ll get jealousy in the future too, but it will be better hidden and shunted aside once Peter proves to be too formidable a force to stand against, and Stiles has no doubt he will be. Even now, Peter gives that impression.

His home life’s not that great either. Oh, he isn’t abused or anything like that, at least not physically, but his parents seem to overlook him a lot in favour of his older sister Talia, even when he brought home straight A’s – a better report card than his sister’s ever gotten apparently.

And his sister – already twenty years old to Peter’s eleven – is bossy enough to get on even Stiles’ nerves when he’s around and listening, invisible to all eyes except Peter’s. She’s the next in line to become Alpha of the Hale Pack; everybody knows it but she still seems determined to rub that in her younger brother’s face, most often by ordering him around and forcing him to submit every time they spar, her claws always digging a little too deep into Peter’s body, and drawing a little too much blood.

Stiles starts weaving a bit of defensive magic around him after the fifth time he witnessed one of the spars. It makes Peter just a bit more resilient and tough-skinned, enough to frustrate his sister when one of her hits don’t even leave a temporary bruise but not enough to raise any suspicions.

And then he begins teaching Peter some fighting tactics that rely more on speed and stealth rather than full-frontal strength, which Talia – a full-grown werewolf with Alpha potential – favours. Peter spends more and more time with Stiles out in the forest, and sometimes, they track and hunt and do absolutely nothing productive too.

Bottom line, Peter’s lonely. That’s not a good thing for anyone, much less for a werewolf. It’s why Stiles hasn’t really seen much of a reason to call him out on his first wish. Genies are bound to their master until their three wishes have come true but there _are_ ways around the wording, especially when the little extra magic is for protecting their master.

“Relax, Peter,” Stiles reaches out and ruffles the kid’s hair. “You’re not so bad to be around.”

“‘Not so bad’,” Peter scoffs, but he leans into Stiles’ hand – almost unconsciously – and Stiles can’t bring himself to pull away.

They put the homework aside for the rest of the evening but Stiles doesn’t have to return to his lamp because Peter doesn’t specifically tell him to. Peter skips dinner and nobody comes to get him beyond the initial irritated shout from his sister.

Instead, Stiles snaps up some burgers and curly fries for them, and they watch a movie on Peter’s laptop.

When Stiles starts combing fingers through Peter’s hair, the werewolf growls and grumbles like he’s annoyed, but ultimately, he slouches against Stiles’ side and relaxes into the soothing ministrations.

Later, Peter falls asleep against him, and Stiles carries him to bed. When one of the werewolf’s hands remain curled in the fabric of Stiles’ shirt, Stiles sighs and considers forcibly detaching himself from Peter’s grip but doesn’t quite manage it in the end and lies down beside Peter instead.

Peter immediately snuggles into him, tucking his face against Stiles’ neck and inhaling once – slow and deep – before his breaths even out into peaceful slumber once more.

Stiles is going soft. And he doesn’t even have much of an excuse. Peter’s still as bratty as he was two years ago when they first met; nothing’s really changed.

Except maybe they have, in small, creeping ways that remain unnoticed until they’ve already happened.

Besides, Peter still has two wishes so it isn’t as if Stiles is going anywhere anytime soon.

And there are certainly worse masters out there than a lonely, too smart kid with a silver tongue that will more likely than not get him into trouble one day. Even more trouble than he gets into now.

Stiles will probably be there to fish him out of that mess too, free of cost if the way things are going is anything to go by.

He’s going _soft_.

 

* * *

 

When Peter wakes up in the morning, Stiles is still there, yawning awake when the werewolf pokes him one too many times.

“ _What?_ ” Stiles grouches, flopping over so that Peter’s pinned underneath him and – therefore – cannot continue his poking.

Peter retaliates by extending his fangs a bit and gnawing on Stiles’ shoulder without actually breaking the skin like some demented teething vampire.

 _Brat_.

“…If I ruled the world,” Peter mumbles into Stiles’ shoulder after several pensive seconds. “D’you think my family would like me more? If I showed them I’m definitely better than Talia? If I’m king and she’s not, that means I _have_ to be better than her. So d’you think they’d like me more then?”

Stiles is silent for a long minute. And then he sighs and rolls them both back onto their sides instead. He doesn’t lie because he knows Peter – for all that he’s still a kid – won’t appreciate it. “No.”

Peter presses his face into Stiles’ chest. He doesn’t cry. Or maybe he does but has simply long since learned that shedding tears won’t change anything.

“I didn’t really think they would either,” The werewolf mutters when he finally pulls back, and his eyes are wet after all.

He’s too smart for his own good. Too perceptive of how cruel life can really be to truly fool himself.

Stiles snaps up a tissue and mops up the liquid threatening to spill out of the corners of the werewolf’s eyes. Peter huffs and puffs but doesn’t wriggle away.

“I still have two wishes,” He says abruptly, leaving Stiles blinking at him.

“So you do,” Stiles agrees.

“You can’t leave me before then,” Peter clarifies, and it sounds like both a challenge and a plea.

It’s a Sunday. Sundays are for sleeping in.

Stiles pulls the blankets back up over their shoulders. “Obviously. Now go back to sleep. It better be noon the next time you wake me up.”

Peter rolls his eyes. It’s already a very impressive eyeroll, Stiles has to admit, especially for eight in the morning.

“You’re the laziest genie I’ve ever met,” Peter complains, already curling into Stiles again like he’s half-cat instead of half-wolf.

“I’m the _only_ genie you’ve ever met,” Stiles retorts even as he draws Peter closer, arms wrapping protectively around the boy.

He’s probably going to regret this one day. Sooner or later, Peter’s going to want two more somethings, and then it’ll be sayonara for Stiles, and he’ll end up at the beck and call of another master, one who – with Stiles’ luck – will be detestable at first sight. There aren’t a lot of Peter Hales in the world, and even less who can worm their way into Stiles’ good graces.

But it’s a little too late for Stiles to back out now. He’s grown fond of Peter, and the werewolf somehow brings out all of Stiles’ near forgotten _caring_ tendencies.

He’s going to regret this.

But for now…

“Can we prank Talia again later?” Peter asks, voice already gone drowsy again.

Stiles snorts, closing his own eyes. “Sure, why not. We’ll even frame one of your cousins for it.”

Peter snickers against Stiles’ collarbone but settles down after that, and he’s asleep again within minutes.

Stiles sighs once more. For now, he’ll just have to make the most of the time he’ll have at Peter’s side.

Live in the moment, as people like to say.

The future will bring along its own monsters sooner than you think.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	14. When the End Comes, Laugh Like There’s No Tomorrow (’Cause There Very Well May Not Be)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s something funny about how the end of the world never actually stops ending. There’s something even funnier about the fact that when even Scott went crazy-eyed and undead, Stiles is the one who beats all the odds and survives. And keeps on surviving.
> 
> But then again, it’s the end of the world. Everything has to be at least a little funny. Otherwise, as Peter keeps telling him, they may as well shoot themselves and save the zombies the trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Apocalypse AU, Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, Mentions of Cannibalism

 

The virus came from Eichen House. Go figure. Stiles doesn’t really know how or why but he can guess. The doctors there lost control of something or other, and the thing escaped and went viral.

If you were lucky, you either got out or killed yourself first. If you were unlucky, you got infected.

Beacon Hills fell first. And the rest of the world followed.

 

* * *

 

They’re bunking down in the back of an abandoned school bus tonight, right next to the emergency exit, just in case.

Stiles is carefully dividing their latest rations between their respective backpacks. You never know when they might have to split up, and it’s smarter for both of them to have an equal amount of food and other necessities if they ever need to survive on their own.

Peter’s busy spreading out a sleeping bag on the floor. He’s already ripped out a few of the seats to give them more room, and it isn’t cold enough yet to need a blanket.

As soon as Stiles is finished, Peter is manoeuvring him down onto the sleeping bag, and Stiles lets him with a half-hearted roll of his eyes.

The werewolf isn’t quite feral, not when he has Stiles as an anchor. But ever since Stiles broke into the zombie-infested prison that was Eichen House, killing everything that so much as twitched along the way, and dragged a wild-eyed Peter Hale back out before hightailing it out of what was left of the town, Peter’s been… clingy.

Stiles didn’t expect it. Hell, he didn’t even really know what he was doing when he took a gamble on Peter, but the werewolf was the only one left alive whom Stiles gave even half a shit about, and after bashing his own father’s skull in and setting Scott and the rest of the Pack on fire (the morbidly hilarious irony was not lost on him), his mind simply leapt straight to Peter.

Because if anyone could survive ground zero long enough for backup to arrive, it would be Peter Hale.

After that, he kind of thought Peter would strike out on his own. Peter’s a werewolf after all, while Stiles is still human – a resourceful human but human nonetheless in a world now literally made of monsters – and the last remaining Hale is exactly the type to leave dead weight behind if he thought it was necessary.

But Peter didn’t. He stuck around, stuck _close_ for the first few weeks, hovering at Stiles’ side with haunted eyes and paranoid violence whenever they stumbled on other survivors. Stiles gave up telling Peter to _not_ kill first and ask questions never after the third indiscriminate slaughter, especially since the other group attacked first the third time, and Stiles ended up crushing one guy’s chest cavity when he pointed a gun at Peter’s unprotected back.

Peter only relaxed a little after a month or so, at least enough to let Stiles out of his line of sight for short periods of time when one of them had to draw away a horde of zombies while the other ran into whatever store they came across to grab what useful supplies they could find.

It’s been around a year now. Stiles and Peter are still alive in a lawless world. And werewolves have long stopped being the scariest thing you can meet in a dark alley or even in broad daylight. They’ve met zombies and survivors alike, and they’ve killed both, though they’ve cut down on attacking the latter first so long as they left Stiles and Peter alone and didn’t try anything stupid.

Which admittedly isn’t often.

Peter growls softly from where he’s tucked up behind Stiles, arms wrapped possessively around Stiles’ waist and chest like they always do when they’re resting or sleeping. It’s been a while since the man last shaved so his beard is getting scruffy. Somehow, Stiles finds comfort in it anyway when Peter presses their cheeks together.

Stiles wriggles around until he’s facing the werewolf, pressing a soft kiss to Peter’s lips, one that’s returned immediately, lingering and stupidly sweet, especially for the world they live in.

But this isn’t new. The two of them are so entwined with each other these days that Stiles can’t truly imagine surviving without Peter at his side. He’s mostly convinced that Peter can’t either.

“Where shall we go tomorrow?” Peter murmurs against Stiles’ lips, eyes half-lidded to show slivers of crystallized sapphire.

Stiles huffs a facsimile of a laugh even as he nestles impossibly closer into Peter’s chest. “One place is as good as another.”

He reaches up and tangles absent fingers into the werewolf’s hair, equally, helplessly possessive in his own way.

“North?” He suggests. “We did say we’d try for Canada sooner or later.”

“Canada’s government handled the apocalypse no better than the States did,” Peter scoffs but he doesn’t sound like he actually cares.

There’s no point in caring about what-could’ve-beens _now_.

“But there’s less people,” Stiles offers. “And more space if we travel far enough.”

Peter hums. “That _would_ be nice, I suppose. I wouldn’t have as many throats to rip out. Frankly, murder’s gotten old, and let me just say I never thought I’d ever say that.”

Stiles rolls his eyes more vigorously this time, pinching Peter’s hip for good measure. In reply, Peter nips playfully at Stiles’ throat, muffling a raspy chuckle against his skin.

“We can decide in the morning,” Peter concludes when Stiles can’t quite stifle a yawn. They’ve had a long couple days, having run into a bunch of lunatics with guns just yesterday, and then a veritable army of the walking dead earlier today.

“Mm,” Stiles agrees, letting his eyes slide shut. “’Night.”

“Goodnight.” Peter brushes another kiss over Stiles’ forehead. The werewolf will sleep too, but both of them are used to waking upon being disturbed by the faintest of noises, everything from the snap of a twig to the moan of a zombie.

Tomorrow will bring its share of troubles, but for now, in the back of a faded yellow bus, relatively safe and curled together with only the unnaturally hushed silence outside – something they’ve long resigned themselves to ever since the dead started outnumbering the living – to keep them company, the illusion of being isolated from anything that could possibly harm them affords them at least a little break from reality.

And sometimes, in a world overrun by zombies, a break from reality is all anyone ever really wants.

 

* * *

 

They wake, they scarf down some breakfast, and they keep moving.

Always keep moving. You never want to be trapped because that’s what happens when you stay in one place for too long – zombies are attracted to heat signatures, so stay too long and you’re as good as dead.

Stiles’ metal bat takes a chunk of brain out of a rotting, shuffling corpse. He’s long since become desensitized to it.

Peter tears through five more as Stiles turns two other zombie heads to mush. And it isn’t even noon yet.

“Canada?” Stiles asks, barely out of breath as he wipes off the worst of the gore stuck to his bat on a yellowed patch of grass.

Peter shrugs, fangs and claws receding even as his head remains tilted, straining for even a hint of a noise out of place. “Why not. Maybe we’ll even be able to find a functioning ship or plane and finally get off this godforsaken continent.”

“There’s no guarantee that anywhere else will be better,” Stiles warns as he shoulders his backpack once more.

“It can’t possibly be any worse than here,” Peter dismisses, and he has a point. Two months ago, they came across a group of teenagers gorging themselves on human flesh, rusty little Boy Scout knives cutting into their catch. A mother and her toddler son to be exact, both still alive and definitely wishing they weren’t if their agonized screams and tearful pleas were anything to go by.

Stiles threw up. Even Peter looked sick upon hearing the mother begging for her son’s life. The two of them hardly ever stop to help other people, even when they’re cornered by zombies. _Especially_ if they’re cornered by zombies. But they went out of their way to kill that particular group that day, if only so they could put the woman and child out of their misery.

There is nothing quite as terrifying as humanity when it becomes desperate enough.

“Let’s go then,” Stiles pauses long enough to check the position of the rising sun, and then they’re off, moving forward, forever onward.

That’s all they can really do now, keep moving and never stop. But Stiles watches Peter’s back, and Peter watches his back, and when the world is ending around them, simply having each other is enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	15. there’s a ghost on my shoulder (and she refuses to leave) (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Stiles and Laura become besties (kind of), and Laura much prefers goading Stiles on than being Alpha herself. Not that she can be even if she wants the position, so it’s a good thing she doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Ghost Laura, Preslash
> 
> More Stiles & Laura interaction here than any solid Steter, but you know, anything I write is Steter end game, and it’s not ‘complete’ enough to be a oneshot on its own, so I’m sticking this here as a Steter drabble.

 

“I’m not your errand boy,” Stiles grumbles even as he wriggles through one of the air ducts inside the bank.

The translucent figure currently settled in his torso waves a ghostly flippant hand that Stiles just manages to catch in his peripheral vision. “Well you don’t _have_ to do what I ask.”

He tosses a glare over his shoulder at the woman. “Then you’ll just nag me all day and give me those stupid puppy-dog eyes. You’re a grown-ass werewolf for god’s sakes and you’re bossing teenage boys around to do your dangerous dirty work ’cause you don’t feel like moving on. Has anyone ever told you you’re next to useless?”

“Uncle Peter did,” Laura answers matter-of-factly. “We had some choice words for each other right before he killed me.”

Stiles huffs and inches forward another few feet. He can practically feel the grimy layer of dust he’s picking up.

Laura swans forward, at least three-quarters of her body sinking further into Stiles’ as she leans forward over his head to peer at him upside-down. Stiles swats at her but – of course – his hand simply passes right through her forehead. Contrary to popular belief, there’s no actual chill when a ghost travels through you or vice versa. At the very least, Stiles never feels anything except a slight pressure whenever Laura swoops through him, and the pressure isn’t even uncomfortable.

“I don’t really care anymore,” She continues, and there’s something a little sad in her voice but not dishonest. “Death puts certain things in perspective. And since I’m already dead, there’s not much point getting hung up on how I got that way.”

Stiles grunts as he hauls himself up one duct before swinging into another horizontal one. “Well that’s good. I mean, you were kind of a shitty Alpha anyway. At least to Peter.”

“Thanks,” Laura says dryly, sitting up again so that everything below her waist is inside Stiles’ chest area. “You should tell Uncle Peter that. You two can bond.”

“Over what exactly?”

“Your shared ruthless opinion of pack loyalty.”

Stiles snorts. “I haven’t tried exorcising you yet, have I?”

“True,” Laura agrees. “But I haven’t betrayed you the way I did Peter either.”

Stiles pauses and looks over his shoulder at her. Laura smiles back placidly, hands clasped between Stiles’ shoulder blades. “Would you? If you could?”

“Betray you?” Laura looks almost amused. “Probably not. I mean, I’d like to think I’ve learned my lesson. And you’d make the exorcism _hurt_ , wouldn’t you?”

Stiles turns to face forward again and continues his squirming crawl. All he says in response is, “You Hales are so damn weird.”

Laura laughs, airy but not quite humorous.

Because yes, he probably would.

 

* * *

 

Stiles finds Cora Hale in record time, along with Erica and Boyd. Laura’s already scoped the place out for him, and when she drapes herself through him and wraps her hand around his heart, she can’t hurt him but she _can_ make it so that it’s as if Stiles isn’t even there. No heartbeat, no scent, no sound.

As if he’s dead too.

It’s a convenient trick to have, and Stiles takes shameless advantage of it. Laura doesn’t seem to mind either, especially when her younger sister’s on the line.

So when Stiles slides out of the vent and into the hall leading to the vaults, his shoes don’t so much as squeak as he lands in a crouch.

The other Alphas are out. The twins at school mocking Scott and the others, and Deucalion and Kali at the nearby supermarket, leaving only Ennis on guard duty.

One Alpha, Stiles can handle.

Ennis is sitting in a far corner with his feet kicked up and an open magazine in front of him. He’s half turned away from the direction Stiles is coming from, which leaves Stiles free to creep forward and pop his head into the vault Laura directs him to.

Three teenagers stare back at him, eyes wide behind the circle of mountain ash surrounding them. Stiles hastily puts a finger to his lips before miming holding his breath a few times. He waits until they all nod, confused but cautiously, desperately hopeful, and then he reaches into his bag and retrieves a grenade.

He raises three fingers and counts down. When he gets to one, Boyd, Erica, and the girl who has to be Cora if Laura’s anxious frown is anything to go by, all suck in a deep breath. Stiles does the same before pitching the grenade at the ground near Ennis’ feet.

Ennis is up in an instant, and he catches sight of Stiles in the blink of an eye, but before he can react with more than a flash of hostile red eyes, the grenade detonates in a smokescreen explosion _filled_ with wolfsbane.

Stiles doesn’t waste any time. He’s digging out four gas masks even as he hurries forward, stopping only long enough to break the mountain ash line before shoving three of the masks at the captive teenagers and buckling the last one onto his own face.

With Laura chanting “Go go go!” in his ear, and Ennis’ agonized, furious howls in the background, Stiles yanks the two nearest – Cora and Erica – onto their feet as soon as they’ve clumsily secured their respective masks and swiftly leads them towards the nearest escape route.

Always have an exit plan. First rule of breaking into anywhere.

They stumble out of the bank, and Stiles herds them towards his jeep parked out back and waiting for them. All three werewolves pile into the back in a heap of limbs while Stiles scrambles behind the wheel, flooring the pedal almost before the doors are shut.

Laura disappears for the length of the street that Stiles hurtles down, and then she’s back, settling into the passenger seat beside him.

“Deucalion and Kali just got back,” She reports as Stiles runs a traffic light in his haste to put as much distance between them and the bank. “You got out just in time.”

“No thanks to you,” Stiles mutters under his breath as he removes his mask.

“I helped!” Laura protests indignantly. “I did the recon and everything!”

 _And I did the planning and all the legwork, and the grenade and gas masks didn’t come cheap either_ , Stiles thinks rather uncharitably.

He’s always rather uncharitable when it comes to Laura. Derek drowns because he’s an idiot and big sister Laura spends the next two hours wringing her hands and reminding Stiles not to let her brother go, as if Stiles could _forget_ while treading water and holding the stupid Alpha’s deadweight afloat, especially considering he also had _Derek_ snarling at him about the exact same thing.

Derek’s living in squalor because he’s an Olympic champion at brooding and wallowing in guilt so big sister Laura strikes again and bugs Stiles until Stiles goes and bugs Derek about moving into a place fit for actual living, never mind that Stiles gets slammed into three walls and a steering wheel before the asshole finally grudgingly agrees like he’s doing a favour for Stiles instead of the other way around.

Laura even bothers him about Peter. Well okay, maybe she doesn’t. She’s prodded half-heartedly at Stiles a few times when Derek threw his uncle into a wall or drew blood with threatening claws, but she never actually asked Stiles to do anything about it, and if he’s being honest, it was really mostly Stiles’ decision to step in and distract Derek from going after Peter some more by mocking the Alpha until the scowls and threats are redirected at Stiles.

Clearly, Laura’s crazy was infectious.

And now of course, Stiles can add Cora to the list. After going out to possibly find out more about the Alpha Pack for Stiles, Laura came back with a heroic mission instead, exclaiming over Cora being alive (“You know, if you’d stayed long enough seven years ago to hear the police report instead of running away right off the bat, you would’ve known that only eight people were reported dead in the fire.” “You’re a heartless, tactless brat, you know that?”) and then insisting and wheedling him to save her sister, and Stiles has decided he’s going to hate this woman _forever_.

He ended up pulling two weeks’ worth of caffeinated all-nighters to come up with a viable rescue just to shut her up.

“Stiles?”

Erica’s timid, hoarse voice interrupts Stiles’ internal lament. He flicks a look at the three werewolves reflected in his rear-view mirror. They’ve taken off their gas masks as well, and they’ve untangled themselves from each other.

They are not friends, them and Stiles. Allies, at best. More importantly though, they’re Derek’s responsibilities.

“Do you want me to drop you off at Derek’s?” Stiles asks abruptly, taking a left into busier traffic and slowing down now that there isn’t much of a chance of an Alpha werewolf springing out at them. “Or home?”

Erica wilts, and even Boyd cringes a little, which is strange to see. Cora huddles against the door, arms wrapped around herself and a very Derek-esque scowl on her face, defensive and wary.

“Stiles,” Laura says softly, and Stiles’ lips thin.

He loathes taking care of people. He’s _good_ at it, he’ll do it without complaint for the people he cares about, but it’s _hard_. He’s already had his hands full with his dad and Scott for _years_.

But he’s also known Laura long enough to understand what she wants, and it’s ridiculous the way she can simply say his name and Stiles can automatically hear the unspoken words underneath.

“Or I could drop you off at my house,” Stiles relents after several tense beats of strained silence. “I’ve got a guestroom, and my dad won’t be home for a couple days. You could get some rest and a few hot meals there.”

He watches his two schoolmates practically sag with relief. Apparently, option three is better than facing Derek or facing their families right now.

The words come unbidden as he pulls up in front of his house and tosses a key at them. “Then grab a shower and help yourself to anything in my closet. There should be something that fits. And the kitchen’s yours if I’m not back by then. Just don’t blow anything up. There’s no mountain ash around the house but I’ve got wards raised so no one without a personal invite from me will be able to get in.”

Erica smiles weakly at him, fingers brushing his shoulder as she moves to get out of the car, and Boyd gives him a nod, a little hesitant but steady enough. They both glance at Cora but don’t say anything, and Stiles waits until they’re safely inside his house before pulling away from the curb again.

Laura smiles at him, curled up in her seat, dead and beautiful and looking at Stiles like she trusts him with her family. Stiles ignores her in favour of the girl in his backseat.

“So. Derek’s or Peter’s?”

 

* * *

 

“Derek’s the Alpha now?” Cora asks in a voice rough with misuse.

Stiles hums a confirmation as he takes another trip around the block. He considers her reflection for a moment before launching into a succinct summary of all the shit that’s gone down in Beacon Hills.

“Starting with you digging up my naked body,” Laura murmurs cheerfully, and Stiles shoots her a flustered glower. Laura snickers.

“Uncle Peter killed Laura?” Cora asks after Stiles finishes, and she sounds almost dazed.

Laura grimaces and stares rather helplessly at her sister.

“…He wasn’t really in his right mind,” Stiles offers after a lengthy minute of awkward silence. “And if Laura were here, I’m sure she’d agree that she deserves at least some of the blame.”

“How would you know?” Cora scoffs weakly, gaze dropping to her knees where her hands are white-knuckled.

Stiles glances at Laura before looking back at the road. “Because I think any halfway decent _person_ would feel the same. Because if anything is worth regretting, it’s leaving someone to suffer on their own when you’re supposed to look after them.”

He meets Cora’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Was Laura a decent person?”

He sees the flinch that ripples across the werewolf’s shoulders. He doesn’t really expect her to answer something so personal so he’s surprised when she does.

“She was bossy and annoying like big sisters are,” Cora mutters, forehead pressing against the glass of the window. “But she could be nice and funny and she helped Derek with homework and she kicked some high school guy’s ass when I was nine because he laughed at my haircut.”

There are pearly tears in Laura’s eyes. And Cora suddenly looks very young and very tired in the backseat.

Stiles suppresses both a sigh and the desire to run for the hills. His jeep trundles down an empty street.

All three of them are quiet for a while. Stiles drives five blocks in total before Cora speaks up again.

“You’re Stiles?” She squints at him through the mirror. “Are you part of Derek’s Pack?”

“No,” Stiles denies shortly.

“Oh,” She cocks her head and doesn’t ask why. “Is Uncle Peter part of Derek’s Pack?”

“Yeah. No.” Stiles’ brow knits. “Kind of? Peter’s not exactly welcome in it but he’d be an Omega otherwise.”

Cora doesn’t look surprised. Stiles is pretty sure she’s an Omega too.

“Uncle Peter,” She says at last after another minute of pensive contemplation. “I’ll go to Uncle Peter’s place first.”

“Will do,” Stiles agrees.

Beside him, Laura slumps a little, and she looks sad again, if also a bit relieved. Stiles watches her out of the corner of his eye before reaching over and surreptitiously passing his hand through hers in an imitation of two living people holding hands.

Laura blinks, startled, and then she laughs and sinks her palm into his wrist. “You’re such a softy, Stiles. Who do you think you’re fooling?”

Stiles scowls at the car in front and doesn’t look at the former Alpha.

But he doesn’t remove his hand from the passenger seat either, even if it does garner a puzzled look from Cora when she notices the somewhat odd placement of Stiles’ limb.

 

* * *

 

“Where did you find her?” Peter asks once Cora is in the shower and therefore not within earshot.

Stiles shrugs, idly watching Laura make faces at some of the food Peter has in his cupboards. Not that Stiles can see anything but his ghostly companion is nosy enough to stick her face through the closed cupboard doors before retreating with a scrunched nose and a pout.

“The Alpha Pack had her,” Stiles replies. “Along with Boyd and Erica.”

“And Boyd and Erica are…?”

“Safe,” Stiles directs a winning smile at the werewolf. “They’ll return to civilization when they’re ready.”

Peter stares at him, arms crossed, icy blue eyes unwavering. “And you brought Cora here?”

“She wanted to come here.”

Peter’s eyebrows go up. Stiles shrugs again. Laura disappears into the living room.

“Look, she’s your niece,” Stiles sighs, pushing himself to his feet from where he’s been sitting at the kitchen table. “Don’t go killing this one, okay? I get the feeling she’s had a rough time. Maybe you two can bond.”

He heads for the door. Peter doesn’t stop him.

“Hey, Uncle Peter’s as antisocial as Derek is!” Laura hollers from the living room, and Stiles doesn’t quite remember to stop himself from turning and glancing in the direction of the woman’s voice. “He plays chess against himself, and there’s a depressing amount of video games here for a thirty-five-year-old man!”

Stiles rolls his eyes, catches Peter studying him intently, and quickly lets himself out of the apartment. He’s in his jeep again before Laura joins him.

“Where are we going now?” The ghost asks. “Home to take care of your pups?”

Stiles splutters. “Don’t even joke about that!”

Laura cackles.

Stiles hates his life.

 

* * *

 

They go shopping for clothes. This one’s all on Stiles; Laura never even suggested it. But Stiles’ mind just sort of meandered in that direction, thinking of the tattered jeans and shirt that Cora had on and the lack of a bag or even a wallet, and he finds himself driving to the nearest mall.

If nothing else, Laura will have fun, and she does, practically glowing as she flits from store to store, picking out things that she thinks her sister will like and will look good in.

It gets expensive. Not waterworks-worthy expensive thankfully, but the amount still gets high enough to make Stiles wince, and that’s after Laura notices and tries to cut back. Money doesn’t mean anything to the dead but she’s aware enough to know that Stiles isn’t rich and can’t afford everything that catches her eye.

They end up with three pairs of jeans, a pair of sweats, and few pairs of short shorts, two sweaters, a jacket, and a variety of tops, from denim to tees to blouses. And then there are the shoes – a pair of ankle boots and a pair of high-tops.

“Jesus fuck,” Stiles mutters as he throws in some socks, a hairbrush, and some female toiletries because why the hell not. He already got the bras and underwear that Laura instructed him to pick out; nothing can be more embarrassing than that, especially when the cashier shot him a suspicious, judge-y look like she thought he was a pervert or something. What, never seen a guy shop for girl things? Honestly.

Hovering beside him, Laura chews on her lip. “You know, I have a private bank account.”

Stiles pins her with a flat look. “And you’re mentioning that now?”

Laura has the grace to look sheepish. “I’ve been declared dead though, and everything goes to Derek, so I guess it isn’t so private anymore.”

Stiles rolls his eyes so hard he nearly strains himself. “Then what was the point of mentioning it?”

“I’m just saying you could ask Derek for money.”

“Yeah, call me stupid, but I’m not that desperate. Besides, if I was gonna get Derek to pay for this stuff, I’d just get him to go shopping.”

“Ugh,” Laura pulls a disgusted face. “Don’t. Derek hates shopping. Also, he has no fashion sense whatsoever. Those clothes he’s wearing even now? I bought them for him. Every last one. The only things he ever buys are his own underwear and shoes.”

Stiles smirks. “Boxers or briefs?”

Laura grins back, sly and mischievous. “He’s a total briefs guy all the way.”

Stiles sniggers, and he doesn’t even care when a mom shopping in the same aisle turns to give him a disapproving look.

Stiles is weighed down by five different shopping bags by the time they leave the mall, and he shoves them all into the backseat of his jeep.

“You _could_ just get Derek or even Peter to take Cora shopping,” Laura tells him, slanting a look at him from under her eyelashes.

“I could,” Stiles agrees as he leaves the parking lot. “And from now on, they can fund Cora’s wardrobe and livelihood.”

Laura props her chin in her hands and her hands on her knees, and she doesn’t speak until Stiles is turning onto the street where Peter’s apartment building is on.

“Thanks for letting me shop for her,” The woman whispers.

Stiles makes a noise of acknowledgement at the back of his throat and pretends not to notice the tears that Laura’s trying to hide.

 

* * *

 

He leaves the bags at the door, rings the doorbell once, and leaves. He’s not really in the mood for socializing anymore that day, and he still has two runaway werewolves at home to deal with.

 

* * *

 

Erica and Boyd are asleep in the guestroom when Stiles gets home. They’re pretty much wrapped around each other, with Boyd facing the door, no doubt ready to rip apart anyone who registers as a threat on his radar, and Laura floats above them, cooing about how cute they are.

Interestingly enough, Stiles makes it all the way into the room and neither of them stirs. Erica’s wearing a pair of Stiles’ pajamas – the soft grey ones with small Batman symbols all over them – while Boyd’s picked out one of Stiles’ baggier t-shirts and sweats, ones that aren’t quite so baggy on Boyd.

Stiles lingers long enough to open a window, figuring fresh air – along with sunlight – would be welcome, even deep in dreamland. And then he shoos Laura back out, closing the door behind him most of the way.

The kitchen downstairs hasn’t been touched, which means the two upstairs must have simply fallen straight into bed after a shower.

“You’re gonna cook dinner for them,” Laura singsongs from her perch on the stove.

“Shut up,” Stiles grouches at her, and then he proceeds to cook dinner. He has to eat after all, so he may as well cook for three.

 

* * *

 

Erica and Boyd stay for the entire weekend before Stiles manages to convince them to go to the police station. They dither until Stiles gives up and goes inside with them, which results in the inevitable disappointed expression from the Sheriff because his delinquent son has gotten himself involved in yet another case.

Stiles ignores it. He is a goddamn pro at ignoring his dad’s disappointment in him these days.

Laura hovers, ghostly hands resting protectively on Stiles’ shoulders as if they’re still made of flesh and blood. Stiles says nothing but he supposes he appreciates the gesture all the same.

They stick to the runaway-gone-wrong story. They can’t exactly say they’ve been kidnapped; they can’t explain the supernatural to regular humans, and the entire police force is no match for the Alpha Pack anyway, not to mention Erica and Boyd’s injuries have already healed so there’s no evidence of abduction.

So the two of them sit through their families’ tears and hugs – nobody’s angry, just really fucking relieved – while Stiles plays Candy Crush in the bathroom so that he won’t be the spare prick at a family reunion.

“How do these work?” Laura says from where she’s examining a urinal. “I never really took much notice. Do guys just pee in here and then it automatically flushes? Do you not use toilet paper?”

Stiles buries his face in his hands. God. Kill him now.

 

* * *

 

Trouble starts after that. Well, trouble was already hanging around like an executioner’s axe, has been since Scott got Bitten and the Argents moved back into town.

Boyd and Erica return home with their families, but early Monday morning, Stiles gets two separate phone calls and two separate requests for a lift to school if their respective houses aren’t too out of his way.

Stiles sighs and agrees, mostly because it isn’t as if he has much else to do on that front, what with Scott busy doing the on-again-off-again tango with Allison and being werewolf bros with Isaac.

How Derek’s taking that, Stiles doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know. He has enough on his plate as it is, even more once Stiles realizes he’s gained two werewolf shadows, and no, he isn’t counting Laura.

The student body as a whole is surprised to see Erica and Boyd again after such a long absence, and Scott, Isaac, Allison, and even Lydia are downright stunned because none of them have heard any mention of a breakthrough with the mystery surrounding the Alpha Pack. The Alpha twins just look mostly pissed off because their former prisoners are now walking around free.

Erica and Boyd stick close. They still walk down halls with their heads held high, but their shoulders brush as they walk, and they remain within half a step of Stiles whenever possible. They no longer flaunt their werewolf assets.

“Scott’s looking this way,” Erica hisses under her breath as she sits down across from Stiles at lunch with Boyd beside her.

“They’re pro’ly won’ring why you’re hanging out wi’ me,” Stiles says around a mouthful of sandwich.

Laura wrinkles her nose at him. “That’s gross, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs, not particularly repentant even as he swallows.

“I didn’t have classes with him today,” He explains to the living werewolves. “So he hasn’t been able to ask me anything about you guys.”

“Why aren’t you sitting with him?” Boyd enquires, gaze flitting thoughtfully between Stiles and the table across the cafeteria. “Did you and McCall have a fight?”

Stiles shakes his head, shoving down the twist of resentment and hurt in his chest. “Not really. Scott’s just been busy lately. And I’ve got better things to do than watch him and Allison make gooey eyes at each other while Isaac moons after both of them.”

Boyd snorts. Erica grimaces. “Why is he still with her? Didn’t Argent try to kill him? And us? Like, she literally tried to kill everybody.”

Stiles hums noncommittally. “The heart wants what the heart wants. But also, she’s not as crazy anymore since Grandpa Argent’s fucked off somewhere.”

Boyd’s eyebrows lift briefly, but as expected, he doesn’t really say anything, though his silence alone is opinion enough.

Erica just sighs. “Awesome. Well. So long as they don’t expect me to stay in the same pack as her. Now pass me the fries.”

That should’ve been Stiles’ first clue, especially with Laura swimming around them, a secretive smile on her face.

 

* * *

 

They both follow Stiles home after school. They have early curfews now but not that early, and their parents are apparently okay with Stiles since he was the one who supposedly stumbled on them and gave them a ride to the station.

The Sheriff isn’t home so they play Mario Kart, do a bit of homework, and then somehow end up puppy-piling in Stiles’ bed while watching a movie on his laptop.

It’s weird.

“You two are being weird,” Stiles mutters as they watch the Avengers duke it out with the aliens in the middle of New York City. Erica’s head is pillowed on Stiles’ left shoulder. Boyd is lying on Stiles’ right side, semi-plastered against him. “I mean I know I got you away from the Alpha Pack and all but this level of gratitude is strange no matter how you look at it and probably not healthy to boot.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence.

“Do you want us to leave?” Erica asks in a tiny voice at the same time that Boyd mumbles, “This isn’t gratitude.”

Stiles squints skeptically at his laptop screen until Boyd amends, “Okay, some gratitude. Most people would encourage that, Stilinski.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You’re welcome. But look, I’m not kicking you out or anything if you actually want to stay. I’m just saying. I mean we were never even friends.”

“…We could be?” Erica ventures tentatively.

Stiles sighs. He glances up at where Laura is sprawled on her belly in midair.

“Don’t be shy, Stiles,” Laura clucks. “Socializing is good for you, or you’ll turn into a hermit. And you don’t want to hurt their feelings, do you?”

Stiles kind of wants to strangle her. To be fair though, that sentiment has been a vague feeling itching at the back of his mind since they met, so it’s more accurate to say that he kind of wants to strangle her _more than usual_.

“Stay if you want,” Stiles says at last, focusing on the movie again. “But you know, if you ever want to go back to Derek’s Pack, just say so. I’ll even act as a buffer in case he gets violent.”

He pauses. “That’s a figure of speech, by the way. I don’t actually think Derek will get violent. Well, you know, beyond what a werewolf can take-”

Erica is already shaking her head, blonde hair tickling Stiles’ chin. When Stiles glances at him, Boyd shakes his head as well, a frown creasing his forehead.

“We already told him we were leaving,” Erica clarifies. “We’re not taking that back, especially with Argent now part of Derek’s Pack.”

“She’s not really-”

“We know,” Boyd interrupts this time. “But we burned our bridges. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, but we did, and then we got ourselves abducted by Gerard and then the Alpha Pack, and Derek never showed either time. So we’re obviously not Pack anymore if we’re not a top priority for him, and I guess that’s not all on him. But we’re not going to put our lives in his hands again either.”

Stiles chews on his lip. “He’s been looking for you.”

“But _you’re_ the one who found us and saved us,” Erica finishes with a finality that makes Stiles’ skin crawl.

He looks at Laura again. She shrugs, wholly unhelpful. “They have a point.”

 _No they fucking don’t_ , Stiles thinks bitterly. He only went to the bank because Laura wanted to save Cora, and Stiles is a two-birds-with-one-stone kinda guy, but he can’t explain that because _he shouldn’t know Cora_ to begin with.

“Look, we’re not stupid,” Boyd is eyeing him with a mix of exasperation and curiosity. “We get it; Derek was looking for us, you weren’t, but you somehow ended up finding us anyway. You could’ve left us there. But you didn’t, and that’s what matters to us.”

“And then you let us stay here,” Erica adds, lifting her head. “And you drove us to school and let us eat with you and now we’re bunking in your room when you could just kick us both out. Even if you weren’t leading a search party for us, you’re looking out for us now. We don’t want promises of werewolf-y families where it’s supposedly all for one and one for all but nobody actually follows through ’cause we were never really a _pack_ , Stiles. So now we kinda just want someone reliable, you know?”

On screen, the Hulk is smashing things like no tomorrow. Stiles says nothing until the nuclear missile is heading for New York.

“If you change your mind…” Stiles trails off.

Erica scoffs and drops her head back onto Stiles’ shoulder. “Not likely.”

Boyd relaxes again and doesn’t disagree.

Laura gives Stiles a thumbs-up. Stiles would give her the finger if he could.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks go by in much the same manner. Erica and Boyd aren’t as jumpy in public, especially after Ethan and Aiden try to corner them and threaten them, only for Stiles to whip out a can of pepper spray laced with wolfsbane that had both wolves vomiting black goo within seconds.

The twins stay away after that, and Stiles spends an afternoon driving up and down the routes between Erica’s and Boyd’s houses, the school, and Stiles’ house, pointing out the CCTV cameras and where they should walk on the off-chance someone tries to nab them again.

Scott also corners them. Well, he corners Stiles first and demands an explanation. Stiles gives him a half-assed one just to be petty, and he doesn’t even mention Cora. Cora can tell them about herself if and when she wants to.

Sunday morning, _then_ the trouble begins.

Stiles is still asleep. Erica and Boyd didn’t insist on another sleepover. The Sheriff stayed overnight at the station again.

And then there’s a knock. Stiles is a pretty light sleeper these days. He sort of has to be, all things considered.

But the knock is just a knock, not rude banging or some other loud noise that might signify a life-or-death situation, so Stiles just rolls over and tries to convince his brain to remain asleep.

Another knock sounds, and this time, Laura decides to be gleefully evil because she’s bored and doesn’t want to wait a few more hours for Stiles to wake up on his own.

So, “STILES!!” She bellows in his ear. “MAIL FOR YOU!!”

“Fuck _off!_ ” Stiles automatically snaps because he stayed up late on the phone with Erica last night after she called him in a fit of post-nightmare panic, not to mention this isn’t the first time Laura’s decided to screech in his ear to wake him up, and he almost jolts right off the bed to get away from the shout.

“You have ma-ail!” Laura sings, zooming lazily through the air above him.

“There’s no post on Sundays!” Stiles snarls, and he refuses to open his eyes. “Now leave me alone and stop acting like a five-year-old on Christmas morning! You’re supposed to be a grown-ass woman, Laura!”

There is complete, blessed silence after that.

It ain’t blessed for long.

“Uh-” Laura stammers, and _that_ , that is enough to get Stiles up and on his feet in the span of a heart-stuttering breath, one hand already groping for his baseball bat, the other steadying himself when he almost staggers into his nightstand.

“What?” Stiles barks, rubbing the grit out of his eyes. “What’s wro-”

He freezes when he catches sight of the window. It’s closed. Only a select few can enter this house these days; the uninvited can’t even break a window to get in.

But perched outside on the sill is Peter Hale, and he must have been the one knocking earlier.

Peter is motionless, staring back at Stiles, no doubt having heard every word of Stiles’ half-asleep argument.

There’s an envelope in the werewolf’s right hand. His left one is still poised to knock again.

Stiles forces himself to move, to lower the bat and shuffle towards the window.

“Say you were dreaming,” Laura whispers even though nobody but Stiles can hear her anyway.

Stiles slides open the window. “Um.”

They stare at each other some more.

Stiles does not invite the werewolf in. He doesn’t give a damn about being rude if it means today won’t end with dire threats and/or animalistic mauling.

The envelope makes a _thwip_ sound when Peter flicks his wrist once.

“A cheque,” The man says quietly, eyes glued unblinkingly on Stiles’ face. “For Cora’s expenses. She approves of your fashion sense so she's not giving the clothes back but she insists on paying for them. Well, she insists on getting me to pay for them anyway. And she wants to know if you want to join us for lunch today. She would’ve asked you herself but she has the good sense to agree to lie low for now just in case so I’ve come in her stead. It _is_ my cheque after all so I might as well.”

He stops. His gaze sort of glides around the interior of Stiles’ bedroom, unknowingly sweeping over Laura twice. Then his attention returns to Stiles, and his mouth smiles but his eyes don’t. His head cants to one side, and the expression on his face is entirely lupine.

“That was an odd way for you to wake up,” Peter remarks with deceptive casualness, belied by the spark of otherworldly blue in his eyes. “Who were you dreaming about, Stiles?”

“Oh, he’s not gonna let this go,” Laura mutters.

Stiles suppresses a twitch. Yeah, no shit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	16. Irresistible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is tattooed!Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Established Relationship, Fluff, Tattoos, Tattooed Peter
> 
> _Anonymous asked: A tattooed Peter Hale for you! (Sort of. But just imagine IF...) prettiestcaptain(.)tumblr(.)com/post/74162394580/as-you-can-see-im-still-not-over-this_

 

  


 

* * *

 

Stiles likes biting that neck, especially right over the tattoo. It doesn’t hurt that Peter growls when he does, like he can never help the noise that reverberates deep in his chest whenever Stiles pounces and clings and does his level best to leave his mark on tanned flesh and dark ink.

“Are you sure you’re not a werewolf after all?” Peter asks one time when Stiles is sitting in his lap and grazing his teeth along the outline of the tattoo. The older man’s hands rest on Stiles’ hips, holding him steady even as Peter lets his head loll back to give Stiles more room. His eyes are half-lidded with languid pleasure as he bares the stretch of his throat, and Stiles will never get over how much Peter trusts him.

“Nope,” Stiles mumbles, licking up from the tattoo along a tendon before biting gently at Peter’s stubbled jawline. “Cuz I’m not the one who heals all stupid quick.”

He pulls back and huffs as the hickey he left at the join of Peter’s shoulder and neck slowly disappears. “Not fair.”

Peter chuckles, curling a hand at the back of Stiles’ neck to guide him down into a wet and downright filthy kiss that leaves Stiles gasping. He’s gratified to see that at least Peter’s a little breathless too.

“Bed?” Peter asks, and his voice comes out in a gravelly rumble that – coupled with the searing heat in his eyes – has Stiles scrambling to his feet and tugging impatiently at Peter’s hand, his own gaze riveted hungrily on the bob of Peter’s throat and the smirk that curves his spit-slick lips.

They don’t leave their bedroom again until long past dinnertime.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	17. Tranquility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Early winter mornings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Future Fic, Established Relationship, Fluff
> 
>  
> 
> _Anonymous asked: Stiles and Peter cuddling for warmth._

 

Stiles starts when warm hands drop onto his shoulders, but he relaxes again immediately when Peter’s familiar voice curls soothingly around him.

“It’s five in the morning,” Peter murmurs, still sounding a bit drowsy as he stoops to nuzzle Stiles’ cheek. “What in the world are you doing up so early?”

Stiles reaches up to tangle his fingers in Peter’s hair, tilting his head up for a kiss before gesturing out the window he’s sitting beside. “It’s snowing, finally. I just wanted to see the sunrise when everything’s…”

He motions vaguely at the world of white outside. Everything is covered in snow, and even more is drifting down from the sky. Even indoors, Stiles can sense the muffled hush that true winter days always bring with them.

Above him, Peter heaves a sigh, hands rubbing down Stiles’ arms. “You could’ve at least grabbed a sweater.”

Stiles blinks and looks down at himself. Okay, fair, he’s in pajama pants and a t-shirt, and come to think of it, he does feel a little chilled from dozing against the cold windowpane for the past half hour.

Peter’s hands disappear, and Stiles cranes his head around in time to see the werewolf head back in the general direction of their bedroom, only to return seconds later with their bed’s thick winter blanket.

“If we’re not going back to bed,” Peter grumbles, scooping Stiles up into his arms and taking the seat on the window bay before settling Stiles in his lap and then bundling both of them up in the large blanket. “Then we can at least stay warm out here. Although it would serve you right if you caught a cold.”

Stiles just smiles and leans back into Peter’s chest. The werewolf exudes heat like a furnace, and Stiles always appreciates it more on colder days. Peter’s arms wrap around his stomach, and his chin comes to rest on Stiles’ shoulder so that their cheeks are pressed together.

A rumbling sort of purr kickstarts deep in Peter’s chest. Stiles always wonders if his boyfriend somehow managed to inherit cat genes as well as wolf genes, especially with how independent and fussy he can be.

It’s nice, like this, cozy and warm. The apartment is quiet, the world outside is asleep and peaceful, and Peter makes for a very comfortable backrest. Or pillow; Stiles isn’t picky. He squirms until Peter obliges and leans back with an amused huff, and Stiles wriggles around until he can sprawl on top of his werewolf, head nestled on Peter’s chest.

“Happy?” Peter asks dryly, and Stiles can hear the eyeroll in his voice.

Stiles just hums and curls his hand in the fabric of Peter’s shirt. “Very.”

Peter’s arms tighten around him. When he presses a kiss into Stiles’ hair, Stiles can feel his answering smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	18. Step By Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is patient, and Stiles slowly adjusts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Established Relationship, Touch Starved, Touch Starved Stiles, Angst, Fluff
> 
> _withinmeloveresides1 asked: I'm so nervous to ask since I sent you two messages today already but may I ask for a possible drabble? Peter scenting/marking Stiles and having to restrain him because of much arm flailing and squirming the first while he does it. The thought of "Jesus Christ Stiles -hold still damn it-." makes me laugh. Thank you very much and I hope I'm not annoying you with all these messages today >__>_

 

The first time Peter leans forward, slides a hand along Stiles’ shoulder until his thumb can make gentle sweeping passes over the pulse in Stiles’ neck, and then tries to press his cheek against the boy’s, Stiles goes rigid for all of three seconds before he explodes into motion, arms flailing – almost windmilling comically – as he splutters and squirms and squeaks out, “Peterwhatareyoudoing?!”

Peter almost gets whacked in the head by one wildly wayward limb. He jerks back in time to avoid it, but that also means letting go of Stiles entirely with an annoyed huff.

“Scenting you,” Peter complains, rolling his eyes when Stiles just sort of stands there and gapes. “You smell like stale coffee and gym lockers and  _Scott_. It’s disgusting.”

Stiles closes his mouth and puffs up indignantly. It’s adorable, and Peter’s annoyance ebbs. He makes to reach out again, certain he won’t startle his boyfriend this time, but then Scott barges into the room, frantic and wielding a textbook and  _I forgot I have a test tomorrow Stiles help!!_ , and the moment is lost.

Stiles is sufficiently distracted, and Peter heaves a sigh and busies himself with cooking lunch instead, tuning Scott out with practiced ease.

His wolf wants to mark Stiles as his, cover the boy from head to toe with his scent so that Stiles will always smell like both of them, but Peter supposes there’s always next time.

 

* * *

 

The second time Peter tries to run his scent over Stiles, they’re on a stupidly romantic evening stroll. They’re taking their relationship slow because it’s still new and Stiles is still seventeen and Peter doesn’t want to spook him, but Stiles seems to like holding hands, and Peter loves taking any opportunity to tangle their fingers together and have Stiles at his side, so here they are. Stiles smells content and calm, and he’s smiling – something smaller but more genuine than his usual joking grins – as he swings their joined hands a little between them.

Scent-marking is far more personal, more intimate, and Peter knows that some humans find it strange and uncomfortable, or they even disdain it, but Stiles has always been more wolf than human, and Peter’s always been possessive of what’s his.

So when they stop near a railing that looks down into the black depths of a river, Peter crowds close and cards fingers through the boy’s hair before dipping his head to nuzzle at Stiles’ temple.

Stiles freezes. Peter begins to frown but doesn’t quite pull away, beard scraping gently over Stiles’ cheekbone, and that’s when Stiles starts squirming, arms flapping awkwardly for a moment before finding purchase against Peter’s chest and promptly pushing them apart.

Peter’s hands drop back to his side.

There’s a fetching pink blush high on Stiles’ cheeks but Peter is more focused on the fact that  _Stiles just pushed him away_.

He studies Stiles’ expression carefully. There’s no disgust there, thank god, but the boy’s almost vibrating with nervous energy, and when he speaks, his words come out in a babbling rush.

“-can’t just pop that on me Peter, it’s rude and you know I kinda startle easily and what if one of my dad’s deputies drive by-”

Stiles rambles on, excuse after excuse, hands fluttering through the air with anxious emphasis.

Peter doesn’t know what’s wrong. Is scenting stepping over a line? Then why doesn’t Stiles just say so? He wants to ask, but at the same time, the distress knitting Stiles’ brow and making his heartbeat gallop stays his tongue.

For now.

“Stiles,” Peter interrupts, reaching out to catch one of those pale, slender-fingered hands. Tension eases from his shoulders when Stiles doesn’t pull away, though he does shuffle in place a bit before cautiously meeting Peter’s gaze again.

Peter tugs him forward so they’re walking again. “It’s fine. Come on. If you flail your way over the railing, I’ll have to jump after you, and we’ll both be ending the night wet and miserable.”

“I wouldn’t  _flail my way_  over the railing!” Stiles yelps, but the earlier uneasiness dissipates, and Peter counts that as a win.

For now.

 

* * *

 

Number three through eight goes about the same way. Stiles freezes up and then starts wriggling restlessly in place like a cross between a landed fish and a skittish colt, arms floundering like he doesn’t know what to do with them when Peter attempts physical contact.

Which doesn’t make sense because Stiles is fine with holding hands, and they’ve shared more than a few kisses that leave Stiles breathless and hungry for more.

They don’t really hug though, or cuddle. Peter notices once he starts looking for reasons. Their relationship isn’t exactly a secret, but neither of them are huge on PDA, and they’re not going out of their way to flaunt it, so the largely oblivious Pack hasn’t noticed, and so long as their dates aren’t in particularly busy, well-known parts of town in broad daylight, they can also avoid the Sheriff’s eyes and ears.

For that same reason, they mostly hang out at Peter’s place for alone time, but again, Stiles is seventeen, and Peter wants this thing they have to last, so he hasn’t tried manipulating Stiles into his bed or pressuring the boy for anything more than what he’s willing to give, which seems to be enthusiastic kisses that Peter certainly has no complaints about.

But Stiles doesn’t really initiate hugs or anything else that includes prolonged contact. Even when they’re watching a movie, Stiles sits on one end of the couch with his toes tucked under Peter’s thigh, and that’s about it; it doesn’t look like it even occurs to him to cuddle with Peter instead.

And it’s not just with him, which is both a relief and an unsettling realization. Stiles smells like Scott because they’re best friends and Stiles has spent the better part of his life at Scott’s side, not because their precious True Alpha goes out of his way to scent Stiles the way  _an Alpha should_  with all his pack members. They don’t even really hug anymore aside from the occasional  _I’m so glad you didn’t die_ ones after a close shave with yet another monster, not since Scott started dating one girl after another, perhaps not much even before that – Peter wouldn’t know – and the rest of the Pack take their cues from Scott – they don’t touch Stiles either, not deliberately, no friendly hugs or back-slaps or even a pat on the shoulder. They treat Stiles like they treat Peter, except without the cold shoulders and bouts of violence.

(Although the bouts of violence have all but stopped. Stiles tie-dyed all of Derek’s shirts after the last time and threatened to soak the Camaro’s seats in wolfsbane next if he threw Peter across the room one more time.

Peter may or may not have been stupidly pleased about this.)

And don’t get Peter started on the Sheriff. Seriously don’t. The first and last time Peter pushed that particular issue, Stiles adamantly insisted there was never any child neglect involved in the Stilinski household despite the fact that the Sheriff sleeps at the station four nights a week and doesn’t even know how to cook, and he refused to talk to Peter for three days afterwards, so Peter never brings it up again. Instead, he focuses on cooking for Stiles and passive-aggressively adding laxatives to the Sheriff’s numerous bottles of whiskey whenever he can. To his knowledge, nobody’s figured it out yet even though the Sheriff’s had to take five separate sick days since Peter started.

All this explains Stiles’ aversion to being touched for any length of time. The kid’s touch-starved and doesn’t know how to handle the sudden change. It makes Peter seethe, but the more selfish parts of him are also unrepetantly glad that there’s no one else putting their dirty paws on Stiles, even if it would be in entirely platonic ways.

He has a hurdle to get past first though. And Stiles doesn’t seem to want to make a big deal out of it.

So Peter won’t.

 

* * *

 

He starts small. The next time they watch a movie at Peter’s apartment, Peter sets it up before taking a seat right next to Stiles’ tucked up legs instead of lounging against the opposite arm of the couch like he usually would. Stiles stiffens and turns his head to look at him, noticing the change, but Peter busies himself with the remote and pretends not to notice.

The movie starts. Peter leans back and makes himself comfortable, although he’s very aware of the minute fidgeting and repeated glances coming from Stiles.

They’re three-quarters of the way through the movie before Stiles finally moves. His legs stretch out, and his bare feet settle on Peter’s lap, tense and even a bit twitchy.

One corner of Peter’s mouth quirks up, and he curls a hand around one of Stiles’ ankles. Both legs jerk a little like Stiles wants to pull away, but he doesn’t, staying put, one foot tap-tap-tapping against Peter’s thigh.

By the end of the movie, even the tapping stops, and while Stiles isn’t quite completely relaxed, he doesn’t seem to mind the absent circles Peter is thumbing over the inside of his ankle either.

 

* * *

 

Two more movies, four reading/study sessions, and a nap on the couch later, and Stiles is okay with leaning against Peter’s side and resting his head on Peter’s shoulder without a hint of tension in his body.

 

* * *

 

When Peter finally gets around to trying to actively scent-mark Stiles again instead of just slipping it in during cuddles, they’re sleeping in the same bed. Sleep, not sex. They’re drooping with fatigue after killing three harpies, and the two of them automatically migrated back to Peter’s apartment instead of following the Pack back to Derek’s loft. The only company they want is each other’s, and they fall straight into bed after shucking their dirty clothes and stumbling through a shower each.

The moment Peter hits his mattress, he rolls over and drapes himself on top of Stiles before rubbing his face against the boy’s neck without so much as a by-your-leave, his wolf demanding nothing less. There was a close call earlier tonight, when a harpy’s claws almost raked over Stiles’ face and would’ve taken his eyes and possibly his life if Peter didn’t barrel into her a second before she could reach Stiles.

Stiles immediately tenses up underneath him before he starts wriggling his protest, hands accidentally smacking Peter a few times in his attempts to squirm away. “Peter-”

Peter rolls his eyes without actually opening his eyelids and simply scoots over even further so that most of his bodyweight goes into pinning Stiles to the bed and more or less flattening the boy’s octopus limbs as well.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles,” Peter mumbles into Stiles’ skin, surreptitiously sneaking in a lick to taste the mole-dotted skin of his pulse, immensely satisfied by the shiver that runs through Stiles’ body. “Hold still, damn it. This is no different than cuddling on the couch. And you almost died tonight. I need to-”

He stops and just breathes Stiles’ scent in, storms and old books and a dash of lemon. He noses along Stiles’ jawline, growling softly when he gets to the spot under Stiles’ ear where his scent is even stronger.

In contrast, Stiles is abruptly, unnaturally still beneath him, barely even breathing, and it takes a few moments before Peter can wrestle down his instincts enough to pause – however reluctantly – his aggressive scenting.

“…Do you want me to stop?” He eventually forces out, hating having to ask but doing it anyway in as neutral a tone as possible.

Stiles’ chest expands with a deep, slow breath, and then another, and then another. And then one of his arms slides around to sling itself across Peter’s back, hand flat against Peter’s spine.

Stiles doesn’t answer out loud, but another few stuttering heartbeats later, his head tilts to the side, and that delicious expanse of neck being exposed to Peter is more than enough permission and invitation both.

Peter dives back in with a happy growl, practically crawling into Stiles’ space like he wants to live inside him. He’s even happier when he feels Stiles’ other hand come up to run hesitantly, clumsily, along Peter’s own neck and bare shoulder, scenting him in return.

Stiles already smells a lot like him these days but this makes it official, personal, intimate in all the ways that matter. Every werewolf with a halfway decent nose will know that Stiles is  _his_ , and he is  _Stiles’_ , and Peter doesn’t want it any other way.

“Werewolves are really tactile,” Stiles mutters, arm tightening around Peter as his muscles subtly flex before he slumps and rests his cheek against Peter’s hair.

Peter moves so that they’re cheek to cheek, rubbing like he wanted to all those months ago, delighted when Stiles doesn’t try to escape.

“So are you,” He points out because it’s true, because Stiles loves cuddles now that he’s used to it, and he’s always eager for kisses.

Stiles grumbles something wordless but remains wrapped around Peter. Peter sighs with drowsy contentment, and now that they both smell like  _StilesandPeter_ , the desire to sleep swiftly sets in.

He doesn’t bother getting off of Stiles. The exhaustion no doubt aching in both their bones tonight, not to mention the fight itself earlier, has probably mellowed Stiles’ reactions, so the boy will probably flail right onto the floor in the morning once their sleeping arrangement really registers in Stiles’ mind, so it’s only right for Peter to do what he can to prevent that.

His human is silly and needs looking after sometimes. Peter doesn’t mind doing the looking after.

“Go to sleep, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles hums a tired agreement.

Peter waits until the boy’s breathing evens out into sleep, each quiet exhale fanning over Peter’s collarbone, and then he too follows Stiles into a peaceful slumber, his future mate’s heartbeat thumping reassuringly against Peter’s ribcage all the while.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	19. how do I love thee? (let me count the ways.) (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is love, and then there is _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Post Season 5a, Eichen House, Dark Stiles, BAMF Stiles, Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Established Relationship, PTSD, Mentions of Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Hurt Peter

 

Peter once told Derek,  _“Even someone as burned and dead on the inside as me knows better than to underestimate the simple, yet undeniable power, of human love.”_

He thinks, maybe, he underestimated it after all. Or perhaps he underestimated Stiles when he thought he never would.

“Peter?”

Peter turns to meet Stiles’ gaze, and even now, there is something dark and hard and dangerous glittering in those lovely amber eyes, and instead of making Peter shy away, the way it would any other sane person, all it does is draw him in, pulling him into its orbit, a black hole of an embrace, overwhelming and endless, and he dares to hope he’ll never be made to leave.

Stiles crowds in close, warm and familiar, and Peter slumps against him, still shivering from the drugs in his system as he buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck, and a strangled whine of dizzying relief slips unbidden from his lips as he clutches at his chosen mate.

All around them, the shadows jump and dance and yawn with every hiss and crackle and roar of the fire currently and steadily burning Eichen House to the ground. Tortured screams echo from inside, dread doctors and inmates, orderlies and guards, all of them consumed in the inferno of Stiles’ wrath.

“Come on,” Stiles’ hand is firm and grounding at the back of his neck, and Peter lets his mate coax him into the passenger seat of a waiting car. He’s naked under the multitude of fluffy blankets Stiles bundled him up in, and the scars left over from the experiments that the dread doctors performed on him still ache and throb with every breath- _painbloodstoppleasejustkillmepainpainpain **stopplease** -_

“ _Peter,_ ” Stiles is back at his side in the driver’s seat, and both his hands are cradling Peter’s face. He presses their foreheads together, and it’s easier to focus with Stiles’ scent flooding his senses the way it hasn’t in  _months_.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Stiles tells him in so adamant a tone that Peter can’t not believe him. “I’m not letting you outta my sight for like, the next  _year_ , and I’m gonna torch anyone who comes after you. To  _death_.”

That sounds perfectly fine to Peter. He doesn’t want to let Stiles out of his sight again  _ever_. And he isn’t- He  _won’t_  be locked up again.

Stiles starts the car one-handed. His other hand twines with Peter’s, and he doesn’t make any move to let go.

He cracks a window open as they turn onto a quieter street, letting a stream of fresh air in even as the ominous glow of the fire continues to loom high behind them. It’s bound to catch the entire town’s attention. Sirens are already wailing in the distance.

Peter licks his cracked lips, and it takes a few tries for him to find his voice, hoarse and rough. He has a dozen different things to say, to ask, about what Beacon Hills has become embroiled in this time because it’s always  _something_ , but not a single one leaves his mouth first.

“You came.”

What a stupid thing to say.  _Obviously_ , Stiles came, or Peter would still be stuck in his cell, strapped to a table, under the ruthless mercy of a knife.

Stiles’ mouth twists into a snarl, and he smells of sorrow and grief and anger.

“I couldn’t find you,” is what he says, and his grip on Peter’s hand turns momentarily white-knuckled. “I didn’t know about the dread doctors then, about the basement, and the security on the floors above ground was hard enough to find a way around, and I had to keep everything a secret from everyone else too. When I couldn’t find you, no matter how hard I looked, I thought- I thought maybe they’d shipped you somewhere else, or maybe they’d already killed you, but then fucking Theo came back, and the dread doctors marched out like something straight outta Doctor Who, and _Scott_ -”

He falters, but the lack of breath is choked with rage, not worry. Peter looks over, looks at the bags under Stiles’ eyes, at the too-sharp cheekbones and extra creases in his brow and the  _age_  that puts lines in his face that no teenager should have.

Bit by bit, Stiles tells him about the recent events that’s all but scattered the Beacon Hills Pack. About the Pack ignoring Stiles’ warnings about Theo, about Scott taking Theo’s side over Stiles’, about Stiles being cast out and condemned for killing a chimera before the chimera could kill him, about Malia gravitating to Theo because of their coyote similarities, about Liam joining Theo’s chimera pack because of Hayden, about Scott siding with Theo right up until Theo killed him, and it was only sheer luck and Melissa that brought him back.

And now, Beacon Hills is in utter chaos, with Theo and his Pack taking over the territory, and Scott undoubtedly hopelessly out of his depth, with only a barely in-control Kira to turn to.

When Stiles falls silent again, Peter knows that there’s still something else, something that’s dulled the light in Stiles’ eyes, something that has Stiles driving them out of Beacon Hills without a single backward glance.

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to reveal it. “My dad’s dead. Theo killed him.”

Silence falls again. This time, Peter slowly leans over until he can rest his head on Stiles’ shoulder. It’s comfort and understanding both, and he’s gratified to feel some of the tension in Stiles’ frame ease, just a bit.

“Lydia?” Peter enquires after a while.

“Coma,” Stiles mutters. “I found her and took her to the hospital. She’s got a good thing going with Parrish though so I think he’ll protect her even if he is apparently a hellhound with his own agenda. And now that the dread doctors and Eichen House are gone-” Vicious satisfaction ripples across his features. “-she won’t be in danger of being locked up in there again.”

Trees fly by outside. The road stretches onward towards the horizon. They’ve reached the edge of this godforsaken town, and the only sight more beautiful to Peter than this is Stiles standing at the door of his cell and slaughtering Peter’s jailers with extreme prejudice.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says once nothing of Beacon Hills - not even the billowing smoke from the fire - can be seen anymore. “For not finding you sooner. For not getting you out sooner. You’re hurt so  _badly_ -”

His voice cracks, and for the first time since he stormed Eichen House, the rage that’s had his adrenaline pumping finally dies down to a simmer, leaving something almost as broken and lost as Peter is in its place.

They’re far enough away to stop for just a moment, Peter thinks, even as he thinks that no, they’re not, they’re nowhere near far enough yet.

But he nudges at Stiles anyway until the boy pulls over, and then, clumsily, the innate grace he’s always had failing him for the moment, he tugs at Stiles until they both half-tumble, half-fall into the backseat. They immediately curl into each other, and Peter’s wolf  _purrs_  with tired contentment when Stiles scoots into the swathe of blankets that Peter fumbles open for him, just so Peter can feel the gentle glide of Stiles’ hands on his skin.

He has to bite back a moan. It isn’t even arousal, just- just  _relief_  and  _pleasure_  at how good it feels to have his mate touch him instead of mad doctors with their gleaming knives and orderlies with their rough hands and guards with their electricity and zero qualms about beating him into submission the few times he tried to fight back.

“You came,” Peter whispers, tucking his face right up against Stiles’ throat again and just breathing him in. “As soon as you could. That’s all that matters.”

Stiles rubs a hand down Peter’s back, tracing the knobs of his spine, and Peter knows his mate doesn’t quite agree. Stiles is protective about the ones he loves. And he loves Peter.

Peter’s always had his doubts. They’re about as far away from the average conventional relationship as humanly possible, and it started out more about fascination and attraction than anything to do with love. And then he screwed up just when both of them were starting to acknowledge the very real feelings between them, the ones that meant cuddling on the couch and breakfasts in bed and a sickening sort of fear when one or the other puts himself in danger against the latest monster of the week.

If he’s honest, he didn’t expect Stiles to come after him, to save him.

He should’ve known better. Stiles doesn’t let go of what he considers his, not unless they let go first, and Peter has spent the last however many months clinging desperately to the pulsing brightness of his only pack bond, the last link to his sanity and salvation, terrified it would disappear one day even though he knew he’d deserve it.

It never did disappear. It’s still there now, stronger than ever, and a low crooning sound rolls from his throat when he feels amusement and reassurance thrum across the bond. When he pulls back just far enough to glance up at Stiles’ face, the exhausted cast is still there, making Stiles look even paler than usual, but his mouth is quirked in a fond smile, and his eyes are soft with emotions that once spooked him but he now craves as much as he does moonlight and freedom.

They stay like that for a while, Peter dozing a little on Stiles’ shoulder even though he never really falls asleep entirely, too anxious about waking up and realizing that everything has just been a figment of his imagination.

That would break him, he thinks, permanently this time.

Eventually, they separate enough for Stiles to climb back into the front. Peter stays in the backseat, lying down if only because neither his mind nor his body seems particularly capable of finding the energy to prod himself into a sitting position again. And like this, he still has a clear view of Stiles so his wolf doesn’t kick up a fuss.

Much later, they arrive at an out-of-the-way hotel with a room already booked for them. Stiles helps him into some loose sweats and drapes a coat over him before guiding him up to the reserved room. Then he fills a bath for Peter, the warmth of it making him groan as he lowers himself into the water, and Stiles climbs into the tub with him to wash his hair and clean his injuries, fingers brushing over brutal welts and incisions like they’re something precious instead of something to be ashamed of.

The bed is soft and clean and smells of Stiles, and Peter practically faceplants into it, still naked but no longer perpetually chilled to the bone. Even the thought of food makes him feel queasy but he manages to down a glass of water. He’s already half-asleep when Stiles begins massaging a salve into his skin, and the lingering pain in his body ebbs with every attentive knead of Stiles’ hands.

By the time Stiles finishes, all Peter wants is Stiles at his side, and his mate seems to sense it because he quickly goes to wash his hands before circling the room to check the windows and door, and then he’s back, shedding the shirt and shorts he threw on earlier before crawling under the covers with Peter.

Stiles has put on muscle, even though he can definitely afford to eat more. It shows now as he gathers Peter into his arms and settles him against a chest that’s gained a breadth that wasn’t there before. He’s still not as broad across the shoulders as Peter, and he probably won’t ever be, but he’s certainly taller now, physically stronger, and Peter likes the simple pleasure of being held. He could get used to this.

At least for now, Eichen House seems more like a distant nightmare than an actual memory that’s left its mark on Peter. Stiles is alive and here, his heartbeat a steady drum beneath Peter’s ear, and Peter is free and alive and with his mate.

He finally surrenders to slumber, heavy-limbed, safe, and content in the knowledge that Stiles will guard him while he sleeps.

“I love you,” Stiles murmurs in his ear right before Peter drifts off, and an instinctive smile tilts his lips.

Peter will have to remember to say it back when he wakes up again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	20. let me take you home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Preslash, Fluff, Stress, Comfort

 

It’s been a long day, one of those days that drags at you for no particular reason other than being alive, and it isn’t even over yet. Scott’s called a late pack meeting about the latest big bad, and Stiles can’t just not go. If he knew it was going to dissolve into arguments all around because Scott and Derek aren’t seeing eye to eye again, he would’ve stayed away. Allison being here with her dad isn’t helping matters either.

Now Stiles is just trying to decide whether Scott will notice him slipping out. odds are good he won’t – Scott doesn’t really pay much attention to Stiles these days unless it’s life-or-death related, research related, or schoolwork related – but on the off-chance that he does, Stiles doesn’t want to deal with puppy-eyes and disappointment come tomorrow.

Still, it might be worth it. There’s a headache pounding behind his eyes. His mind feels cluttered and restless from too many sleepless nights and close shaves. He’s jittery under his skin like he’s teetering on the brink of a fever, and exhaustion chews away at his bones; he sort of just wants to lie down and go to sleep and not wake up again.

It’s one of those days. Nobody notices. Stiles should be used to it.

He sits off to the side, his laptop on the coffee table in front of him but his head resting against the edge, curling in on himself as he tries to tune out the rest of the pack. Lydia snaps something barbed and biting when Derek takes a shot at Allison, Scott growls, and the voices rise in volume once more.

Stiles presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until white spots start blotting out the black of his eyelids. He tries to focus on breathing but his lungs never feel like they’re getting enough oxygen.

Something brushes gently over the back of his neck, and Stiles jerks upright, almost knocking his laptop to the ground as he lashes out with one arm.

His hand smacks against fabric. It’s a shirt, black. He looks up. Peter’s standing there, staring back, expression inscrutable but something soft in his eyes.

For a split second, Stiles is almost overwhelmed by the desire to run away and hide.

But Peter’s watching him so he makes an effort to straighten up and stop huddling in his corner. He makes an effort plaster on something sarcastically questioning. “Something I can do for you, creeperwolf?”

Peter couldn’t look more unimpressed if he tried. Stiles’ question is ignored. Instead, “do you want me to take you home, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks. It takes a sluggish moment for the question to register, and even then, all he manages is a flat, “What.”

Peter sighs and flicks a disdainful hand at the squabbling pack. “This looks like it’s going to take a while. Again. We may as well leave, and you don’t look well enough to drive at the moment.”

Stiles frowns slowly. “And you’re offering to drive me home?”

Peter nods. “And maybe cook you something. Some food wouldn’t hurt. Soup, perhaps. A chicken broth, before you get some sleep.”

That sounds… heavenly. But-

“I’m fine,” Stiles says stiffly, fingers fluttering briefly over the keyboard of his laptop, trying to come up with a viable excuse to get rid of Peter.

Or at least that’s what he means to say, to do, and he’s certain he says it, but then Peter says “ _Stiles_ ,” patient and knowing, and there’s a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, and Stiles’ shoulders slump.

And somehow, between one blink and another, Stiles’ bag is packed, and Peter is guiding him out the door, leaving the antagonistic bickering behind. Another blink, and he’s in the passenger seat of his jeep, with Peter behind the wheel. Another blink and he’s home.

Peter coaxes him into the shower, and the hot water feels nice against his back. When Stiles comes out, steam curling through the air, Peter is waiting with the promised chicken broth, and Stiles swears it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Once his spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl, Peter whisks it away before ushering him into bed. Stiles’ limbs are heavier than ever but in a way that makes his eyelids droop with the promise of sleep. He tries to fight it because he doesn’t want to soak in nightmares again, but then he feels Peter crawl into bed behind him, and it should be weird and creepy, but Peter is a reassuring weight at his back, moulding against Stiles like a shield against the rest of the world, and Stiles can’t bring himself to resist.

He falls asleep with Peter’s arms wrapped around him, and for once, he doesn’t dream of blood and death and shadows leaping out to eat him.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, Peter is still there, though Stiles is facing him this time, curled into the werewolf’s chest, legs twined together. Peter is already awake, or maybe he never slept, guarding Stiles while he slept as if dreams are things that can be scared off with fangs and claws.

Stiles means to say something witty or maybe even grateful but what comes out is a drowsy, “Mornin’.” like waking up in Peter’s arms is perfectly normal.

Peter doesn’t react beyond a soft smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Very early morning. Feeling better?”

Stiles nods, turning his face into Peter’s shoulder. This close, the man smells like the forest on a crisp winter morning. He wonders if it’s a werewolf thing or a Peter thing.

Peter’s chest rumbles with something that could be a chuckle or maybe just contentment, and the arm draped over Stiles’ waist tightens. Neither of them says anything for a long while. Sunlight is just beginning to creep in through the curtains. Birds chirp on and off in the distance. Peter’s fingers comb idly through the hair at the back of Stiles’ head.

“You didn’t have to stay the night,” Stiles mutters at last.

Peter gives the semblance of shrugging without physically doing so. “I wanted to stay.”

There isn’t much Stiles can say to that.

“And you wanted me to stay.”

There isn’t much Stiles can say to that either. His dad probably stayed at the station overnight again. The house would’ve been empty.

And no matter how much Stiles is used to it, he hates being alone.

“It’s still too early to get up,” Peter continues when Stiles remains silent. “Think you could sleep some more?”

As if on cue, Stiles cracks a yawn, muffling it in Peter’s shirt. Peter pulls him closer. “Then go back to sleep. I’ll wake you up in time for school.”

“’Kay,” Stiles mumbles. Again, he can’t really bring himself to argue. Going back to sleep doesn’t seem a bad idea. Stiles is comfortable where he is, safe and well-rested, and unopposed to staying that way.

He closes his eyes and lets his thoughts drift. Peter holds him and doesn’t let go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	21. Wolf and Crow Agency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re excellent at their job, even though Chris wouldn’t admit it under pain of death. But is a little less property damage too much to ask?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Supernatural Elements AU, Werewolves Are Known AU, Detectives AU, Established Relationship, Werecrow Stiles, Detective Stiles, Detective Peter, Cop Chris
> 
> _Anonymous asked: What about a fic with Stiles the werecrow and Peter the werewolf working together. ~~Stiles could have powers similar to your fic "i am addicted to death (so remind me what it’s like to live)".~~_

 

“You’re letting him get away!” Stiles screeches from the air as he watches their target cut through two back alleys to increase the distance between himself and his pursuer.  “I  _told_  you to cut him off on Fifth!”

_“No, you told me he would turn left on Fifth!”_  His partner’s voice growls in his ear via a communication rune.   _“So I picked the route that would cut him off but then he went and turned right! I’d say the fault goes to the one who can’t tell left from right, birdbrain.”_

Stiles huffs sulkily. Okay, so he may have made a slight miscalculation but he’s the one who’s been doing all the figurative legwork so far. He did the recon, the information gathering, the tracking. The only thing left for his stupid furball of a partner to do is use his damn nose to catch their target but  _noooooo_ , let’s pick on Stiles ’cause it’s all Stiles’ fault.

Their target scrambles down a ladder and heads deeper into the city. If he reaches the busier parts of downtown, they’ll lose him.

“Right!” Stiles order, winging fast after their target. “Take the next right, go straight forty feet, and then take a left and you’ll have him!”

_“You sure it’s not left then right this time?”_ His partner snarks but to his credit, he’s already following Stiles’ directions, sprinting down another alleyway on all four legs.

“Hurry hurry hurry!” Stiles chants, banking left to circle around their escaping target. “You’re almost there!”

He watches the werewolf put on a burst of speed as he rounds the last corner, and then-

_“Stiles! It’s a dead-end, damn it!”_

Stiles cackles. “No it’s not! Target’s on the other side! ETA in five… four… three…”

An irritated snarl rents the air before the werewolf plows straight through the brick wall of the abandoned building Stiles picked out for exactly this purpose, crashing through the interior before bursting out the other side in an explosion of concrete, dust, fur, and muscle just in time to intercept their target.

Said target shrieks, trying in vain to put on the brakes as he goes careening into the crimson-eyed hulk of a wolf that’s glaring him down with its lips peeled back to reveal razor-sharp fangs.

Stiles touches down on an adjacent rooftop just as Peter shifts back enough to snag their target around the neck with one clawed hand and toss him headfirst into the nearby gutter. Judging by the resounding thud, the guy will probably be nursing a concussion when he wakes up.

Stiles spreads his wings once more and spirals downward, blurring from feathers back to human skin a few feet from the ground before spinning around to face his partner, an exultant grin on his face.  “I think that went really well!”

Peter just snaps human teeth at him this time, brushing distastefully at the debris coating his hair.

Stiles pouts. “Aw, don’t be like that, wolf. I knew the building would be no problem for you.”

He sidles forward. Peter ignores him. Stiles pouts some more, crowding close until he can rub his face against the werewolf’s shoulder, slyly baring his throat to show off a tantalizing stretch of skin at the same time.

He peeks up. Peter’s eyes slant over to meet his before they roll out of sheer exasperation. An arm curls around his waist and pulls him flush against the werewolf’s side, and then Peter is scenting him in return, scraping his beard along the join of Stiles’ shoulder and neck before biting gently at the offered flesh.

Stiles hums around a shameless moan.

They don’t bother pulling apart even when wailing police cars pull up and the sounds of doors slamming and rapid footsteps fill the air.

“Not you two  _again_ ,” A familiar voice groans, and Stiles and Peter both share a snicker as they turn to look at the leading newcomer.

“Late again, Argent,” Peter taunts. “Why do you even bother showing up? We could always just drop the criminal off at your doorstep. It’s really not that far out of our way.”

Christopher Argent, chief of police of the local precinct, glowers at both of them as his men scatter to either form a perimeter or apprehend the unconscious thief Stiles and Peter have spent the better part of the past two weeks investigating.

“Hudson wasn’t who we were here for,” Argent retorts flatly, gaze flicking over to the giant hole in the side of the building that Peter bulldozed through. “Strangely enough, the calls we received from the general public sounded more concerned about the wide-scale property damage tearing through the city. _Again_.”

“That’s all on Stiles this time,” Peter replies coolly, buffing his nails in a way that flashes all five claws in plain view. A passing officer skitters away with an  _eep_.

Stiles just shrugs, conceding the point. “But it was just the one building. I even made sure it was an empty one this time.”

One day, Stiles really would like to know if he can make Argent pop a blood vessel just by talking at him.

“One is more than enough! The building is swaying! It looks one storm away from coming down because you blew out the supports!”

“I hardly ‘blew out’ the supports,” Peter scoffs. “I simply took a shortcut.”

Argent looks well on his way to strangling both of them with his bare hands. “ _Why_  didn’t you just  _go around it_ , Hale?”

It’s Peter’s turn to shrug. “Stiles told me to go through.”

Argent facepalms. Stiles grins and pecks the werewolf on the cheek.

“You’re paying for the damages,” The man grits out.

“After  _we_  caught  _your_  high-profile criminal for you? The one who’s sacked seven CEOs’ bank vaults over the past three months? The one that’s had your entire police force running around like headless chickens and resulted in none of the victims being able to stand your incompetency any longer so they decided to come to us? The one we caught in two weeks?” Peter snorts. “I don’t think so.”

When put like that, it  _is_  pretty embarrassing.

Argent looks ready to commit straight-up murder and screw the consequences.

Peter arches an eyebrow in challenge, eyes flickering red. Stiles is bored already and begins wondering how much of a bonus he and Peter will be able to squeeze out of their clients.

Argent – inevitably – deflates.

“Go,” He sighs in defeat. “Just go. Preferably, I don’t want to see either of you again even if the world ends tomorrow, but since I’m sure that’s impossible because if the world ends, I have no doubt you two will be doing the ending, I’ll settle for a month of being able to pretend you two don’t exist. That means _no property damage_. I don’t care if you’re chasing down Deucalion; I will send you assholes to Eichen House if I get a single report of you two levelling the library or razing City Hall to the ground, are we clear?”

Stiles gives him an indignant look, the feathers in his hair bristling. “We would  _never_  level the library. It’s _the library_.”

“City Hall on the other hand, we make no promises,” Peter continues smoothly. “Gotta make sure those tax dollars go to  _something_  worthwhile, right?”

Argent jabs a finger at them. “ _Eichen House!”_

Stiles and Peter just offer unrepentant grins. The police chief always makes that threat. He never goes through with it. Eichen House is a prison reserved for the worst of the worst supernatural creatures, and no matter how much paperwork Chris Argent goes through because of them, they’re both pretty sure the human is still rather fond of them deep inside. Deep,  _deep_  inside.

Also, Stiles went to school with his daughter. They were best friends. She would be so upset if Stiles ended up in Eichen House, and because of her father no less, and then she’d carry out as dramatic a jailbreak as humanly possible just to give her dad consecutive heart attacks.

“We’ll see,” Peter smirks mockingly, wrapping an arm around Stiles and steering them towards the entrance of the alleyway. “See you around, Argent.”

“Bye, Chris! Say hello to Ally for me!”

They can practically hear the man grinding his molars together.

“And for God’s sakes, put some clothes on before I arrest you both for public indecency!”

Peter chuckles before leering at Stiles, one hand rubbing sensual circles down Stiles’ back. “Well that doesn’t sound very fun, does it?”

They turn the corner, and Stiles swings around to sling his arms around Peter’s neck, laughing into the werewolf’s mouth as Peter pulls him in for a hungry kiss, leftover adrenaline still pumping through their blood.

Stiles pulls back with a wicked grin, lips swollen and spit-slick. “How ’bout we get back to the car and give Chris something else to yell at us for?”

Peter’s answering smile is more wolf than man as he purrs, “That sounds like an excellent plan. Lead the way, darling.”

A crow rises between two buildings, black wings unfurling. A grey wolf follows below, never far behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	22. To Sink Without Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Stiles, Peter can let his instincts take over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Fluff, Established Relationship, Full Moon, Dom/Sub Undertones

 

It’s a full moon night. Stiles doesn’t even blink when the window slides open a little before midnight. It’s why he left it unlocked in the first place.

Peter climbs in. he leaves the window open behind him. He prowls right over to where Stiles is sitting at his desk - still awake and muddling through some research - and bends a little to scent him, thorough and possessive, a purr-like growl rumbling deep in his chest.

Stiles doesn’t hesitate, curling a hand around the back of Peter’s neck, drawing the werewolf even closer as he presses their cheeks together, his other hand dragging down the broad stretch of Peter’s back. Peter noses along Stiles’ jawline before burying his face in the arch where Stiles’ neck and shoulder joins.

They don’t talk. They don’t really need words right now. They breathe each other in, content with touch and proximity and familiarity.

Eventually, Peter pulls back, and Stiles lets him go. Both their hands linger on the other.

The next part varies. Sometimes, Peter prefers burrowing into Stiles’ bed, Stiles’ favourite pillow clutched to his chest. Other times, the werewolf sits against the headboard and reads, half-bathed in a wash of moonlight streaming in from the window. And quite a few times, Peter tugs insistently at Stiles until they’re both wrapped around each other, and they fall asleep that way.

On occasion, Peter goes for a run, but he always comes back to Stiles before morning.

Then there are times like tonight where Peter sighs, eyes at half-mast and almost moon-drunk, and his body sways a little before he folds himself to the floor with all the grace of a dancer. He curls up at Stiles’ feet and leans his head against Stiles’ leg, quiet but restless underneath his skin.

Stiles simply combs fingers through the werewolf’s hair, a soothing gesture in their gentle recurrence, and slowly, gradually, the tension melts from Peter’s frame until his shoulders sag and his head lolls, eyes fluttering shut.

It never fails to mesmerize Stiles, how beautifully Peter submits when he gets like this, all pliant and soft. Stiles sweeps a palm down the werewolf’s temple and cheek and jaw, and then Peter is tilting his head back and baring his throat, letting Stiles rest a hand against all that vulnerable warm flesh, his heartbeat a steady, trusting thump beneath Stiles’ palm.

Peter would quite possibly set himself on fire again before he’d ever allow anyone else to see him like this, to force him into a position where they would think him  _weak_.

But he trusts Stiles to take care of him, to protect him, to let him be whatever he needs to be and still snark and argue and laugh with him afterwards, and there are times when Stiles is absolutely  _terrified_  of the enormity of such faith in him.

Much more often though is an awed kind of surprise mixed with a rush of fierce affection whenever Peter puts all of himself in Stiles’ hands to do with as he saw fit, and it makes Stiles want to giftwrap the moon and lay it at Peter’s feet as an offering. They’re so gone on each other it’s ridiculous.

Tomorrow, Peter will be back to his arrogant asshole self, and he’ll piss Derek off and insult Scott’s intelligence and lament the entire pack’s idiocy. But he’ll also eat a breakfast in bed with Stiles, and they’ll probably kill the latest psycho monster together behind Scott’s back, and then they’ll probably go back to Peter’s place for a celebratory fuck, the way they always do. After that, well, they still have to find an apartment together for when Stiles heads to Cornell come September with Peter at his side.

But for now, Peter croons something low in his throat, and Stiles scratches lightly over the werewolf’s pulse before tangling his fingers in Peter’s hair.

The moon is bright against their backs. Stiles turns back to his laptop, continuing his work one-handed. Peter dozes off against his thigh, breathing evening out into slumber, relaxed and calm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	23. We Will Fly Again (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People tend to forget that slaves will always be a threat, if only because – inevitably – they will always rebel. It’s just a matter of when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Slavery AU, Werewolves Are Known AU, Angels AU, Supernatural Elements AU, Angels Are Known AU, Angel Stiles, Preslash, Magical Realism, Angel Lydia, Angel Danny
> 
> _Writeworld Prompt:[He was so wrong on so many levels.](http://writeworld.org/post/128813418961/he-was-so-wrong-on-so-many-levels)_

 

He was so wrong on so many levels. Peter thought he knew Stiles, all smug and knowing and confident, but the werewolf really didn’t. Stiles isn’t loyal to Scott. You can’t be loyal to someone when you never had the choice to be otherwise to begin with.

 

* * *

 

Angels were enslaved a long time ago. For the most part, any mortal blessed with magick – be they vampires or werewolves or even fae – stepped back and refused to have anything to do with the Binding. But at the same time, that also meant they stepped back and  _did nothing_ when the humans started capturing angels and clipping their wings and making them bow.

Personally, Stiles blamed his ancestors. Arrogant and thinking themselves above anything humans could throw at them so that when those magickless mortals found a way to hunt them down and chain them, one by one, none of them were prepared to fight back and – more importantly – win.

They lost. And they became less than human, less than mortal, less than the glorious winged seraphs they used to be.

Stiles was born into such a world, and he grew up on his mother’s whispered stories of freedom and the humans’ harsh supremacy.  None of them can fly now, the ones who were alive during the Binding either forcefully bound or killed, and the newborns bound at birth and raised to serve.

Stiles has only ever stretched his wings once,  _seen_  his own wings once, when his mother tried to run away with him.

The humans spared only him. They thought him still young and easy to break.

They were wrong. Stiles learned to obey, learned to scrape and crawl and kneel at his masters’ behest.

But he never forgot. He never forgot that day in the forest when the humans caught up with him and his mother, when they tortured her with punishment sigils until she could no longer even scream, and burned off her wings as further humiliation until they were reduced to gory stumps, before finally putting her out of her misery.

He never forgot, and one day,  _one day_ , he will make the humans pay. He has a long life ahead of him after all, all the time in this miserable world. He can wait.

He was sold – eventually – to a human family. The humans liked that – a pet angel for their household, as servant, maid, chauffeur, and even first line of defense. Angels still have their magic; they just can’t turn it on the humans who held the key to their metaphorical shackles.

A man named Rafael McCall purchases him, all dark eyes and cruel smirks as Stiles and eighteen others were paraded in front of the bidders.

McCall bought Stiles – Stiles, who was silent until spoken to, eyes averted to the ground in obeisance, and prim and proper with magic enough to cook and clean and throw up wards that none of his peers could penetrate.

He is led over to McCall, and the collar around his throat and the manacles around his wrists all chafe when the key to them – glowing with holy magick – is passed from his old master to his new one.

McCall came with a friend who hasn’t decided on an angel yet, so Stiles is directed onto the floor beside McCall’s shiny black shoes to wait for the entire auction to be over.

He does so without complaint, even when McCall presses a foot between his shoulder blades to lower Stiles even further into the dirt, and when Stiles is allowed to sit back on his haunches again, the cold twist of McCall’s lips is pleased.

Stiles hides his hands under the hem of his tunic so his new master won’t see them clench with the desire to rip open McCall’s chest cavity and throw his soul into Hell.

He distracts himself by surveying the other angels from beneath his eyelashes.

None of them look back at him but all of them are – at the very least – his allies. They will be separated now but they know their jobs, know how to sneak past their respective restraints and slowly – agonizingly slowly – begin wearing them down until they’ll be nothing but decoration one day. Stiles has taught them well, and they all know to spread the word to any other angels they’ll inevitably meet.

One day, Stiles will hear his brethren in his head again, the way his mother described with a universe of longing in her voice, and this time, when the angels finally rebel, they will not lose.

The humans have a good saying for it – the damaged are dangerous, because they know they can survive.

Stiles is a survivor. Just because the humans spared him all those years ago doesn’t mean they didn’t teach him a lesson too. He still has the scars to prove it, along with the memory of his mother’s pain-filled eyes swimming with regret as she was made to watch her only son writhe and scream and even beg.

(They told him to beg for his mother’s life. As if Stiles could’ve done anything less.)

(They killed her anyway, and they laughed when they did it.)

He keeps his chin tucked into his chest but keeps an eye on the auction all the same. Danihel goes to a young woman with dark hair and a smirk that hints at too-sharp teeth. A werewolf, Stiles senses, which is rare but it happens.

Danihel darts a glance at him when he shuffles by, and there is steel in his eyes that promises retribution to the woman holding his key and all that she holds precious.

The others are auctioned off one by one. Lydia is among the last remaining, not because she is undesirable, with her hair of fire and her clever hands as she shows off her knowledge of wine and high-class service, but because McCall’s friend David Whittemore and another man are fighting over her.

Lydia’s green eyes are fierce when they catch his for a fraction of a second, and Stiles knows she wants Whittemore to win, if only so they’ll be together. Lydia is smart, cunning behind a demure smile, and as vicious as Stiles behind her willingness to serve. She and Stiles grew up together, and here in the Hold where all angels are traded and sold and bought and taught their duties, if Stiles is the leader of the brewing rebellion, then Lydia would be his Second.

Whittemore wins, with much cheering from the spectators and good-natured grumbling from his fellow competitor. Stiles wants to sneer but doesn’t. The line of Lydia’s shoulder slump with relief, so miniscule a motion that no one notices except Stiles.

Stiles hides a smile of his own. This is an unexpected but not unwelcome surprise.

McCall and Whittemore get up to leave. A jerk of their respective keys have Stiles and Lydia stumbling forward, stifling twin chokes, and the two men chuckle as they lead the way out.

They mention a place called Beacon Hills.

Stiles swears it will be the first to burn.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	24. Scales and Treasure (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even surrounded by fire, Peter’s never been safer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Preslash, Dragon Stiles, PTSD
> 
> _Anonymous asked: Hey! I just read your angel stiles drabble and loved it:) I know you're just drabbling so maybe you could doodle a tiny something about dragon!Stiles? (But ofc you can totally ignore this; I just thought I'd ask cuz I love all your steter fics.)_

If Peter gets out of this alive, he’s going to personally rip out Derek’s newest girlfriend’s still beating heart and feed it to her. Or maybe he’ll rip out Derek’s. You’d think his nephew would’ve learned to simply  _go celibate_ by now after fucking two psychopaths but  _no_. And this third one was a witch, one who also prefers fire if the burning walls and crumbling ceiling all around him is anything to go by.

Peter breathes in. Coughs when he gets a lungful of smoke instead of oxygen. He shuts his eyes for a moment and tries not to panic. He loathes being this out of control but he keeps getting flashbacks and he can’t  _think_.

He opens his eyes again. Nothing has changed. He can hear nothing but the loud crackle of flames and the warning creak of the loft’s buckling structure.

He’s going to die in fire yet again.

Worse, he won’t be the only one.

He’s half wolfed out - has been since the whole place went up in flames with virtually no warning, and he realized there was no way out - as he stalks back into the main interior of the loft and scrambles up the staircase to the upper floor where the smoke isn’t as thick as it is downstairs and the flames haven’t yet reached.

Stiles is right where Peter told him to wait, sitting on the bed - Isaac’s bed - and frowning at the tiny window to his left, grey with smoke on the outside. He turns to Peter when Peter appears. “There’s mountain ash everywhere.”

“You can’t break it?” Peter growls through a mouthful of sharp teeth, already knowing the answer, desperate to hear a different one anyway.

Stiles shakes his head solemnly. “She put up wards too. From what I can tell, it keeps the loft looking like nothing’s happening on the outside until the building collapses, and it’ll keep us inside until this fire burns itself out.”

_And takes us with it_ goes unspoken. Peter whirls and smashes Isaac’s nightstand with one clawed fist for lack of anything better to do.

He can’t stand this. He swears he can hear his family’s agonized screams all over again. His skin feels like it’s already peeling from the heat.

“Hey,” A hand presses between his shoulder blades. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Peter laughs, ragged and harsh. “Your optimism is impressive, and I hate to break this to you, but no, everything is  _not_  going to be okay.”

Something crashes to the floor downstairs. Peter can now pick up a faint hissing sound, barely audible even to him but distinctive all the same.

Wonderful. The fire’s hit a gas main. At least they’ll explode along with the building before they burn.

(He hopes he dies this time. If it’s come down to this, he’d rather die quickly than be trapped in a burning hell for years on end again.)

He closes his eyes again and roughly runs shaky fingers through his hair, uncaring of the blood that wells up when his claws nick his scalp. His wolf snarls and runs rampant inside him, near feral with remembered terror.

“ _Peter_ ,” Stiles says, and this time, his voice is steel underscored with a rumbling timbre that startles Peter out of his spiraling train of thought. He opens his eyes and stares straight into slitted pupils.

He’s too taken aback to move when hands come up to cradle his face, even when he feels the light prick of claws at his temples, resting against his skin but not drawing blood.

“We are going to be  _fine_ ,” Stiles repeats, features going strangely sharp, his expression fierce with something predatory and vaguely…  _serpentine_. “Do you hear me? I was hoping there might still be a way out, but if it’s come down to this, I won’t let the fire hurt you. Understand?”

Peter slowly reaches up and closes his hands around Stiles’ wrists, and he can feel something thrumming warm and alive under his palms, something more than blood and heartbeat, simmering under Stiles’ skin like a wild thing, untamed and free.

The fire raging around them seems to fade into the background. Peter breathes. Smoke still scratches the back of his throat but it doesn’t choke him. He nods.

Stiles smiles, and Peter thinks he sees a flash of fangs.

“Come on,” Stiles drops his hands from Peter’s face, only to take his hand instead as he leads them over to the far corner. “I’m pretty sure this is the wards’ weakest point.”

Peter glances down at their joined hands. Those are undoubtedly claws extending from Stiles’ nails, but Peter doesn’t recognize what kind.

“This place will explode any minute,” Peter says out loud. “The fire’s gotten to the pipes.”

“I know,” Stiles nods, ushering Peter over to a clear patch of floor. “I heard it too. Now sit.”

Peter sits because clearly Stiles has a plan that probably won’t end in their horribly painful deaths, which is more than he can say right now. He watches the boy sniff the air, not at all affected by the growing smog. He huffs, looking mildly annoyed, and a thin trail of smoke swirls lazily from between his lips, along with a few orange sparks.

“What are you?” Peter asks, gaze intent on Stiles, because he’s pretty sure there is no shifter out there who’s capable of reaching a point where they would seem seconds away from producing fire all on their own.

Stiles cocks his head and grins, and there is definitely too many teeth in his mouth to be human, and too sharp to be a regular beast.

“You’re about to find out,” Stiles purrs wickedly, crouching down beside Peter even as the roof groans above them. The boy leans in, and they’re about the same size, but Stiles gives the impression of curling halfway around Peter like a shield anyway. Their noses are inches away from brushing, and this close, Peter can see that the amber in Stiles’ eyes has deepened to the gold of midsummer sunlight.

The building sways. Metal screeches, and Peter knows the staircase is gone, but he can’t seem to look away from the steady calm on Stiles’ face, and even his wolf quiets at the back of his mind, still restless but recognizing a bigger predator and the safety they’ll provide because they’re also Pack.

Stiles smirks one last time. “Try not to die of shock, old man. We still have witch to hunt after we get outta here.”

And before Peter can respond, Stiles’ figure seems to blur for a moment around the edges before he simply  _bursts_  outwards, bigger and bigger until wood and steel and plaster shatter above and below them, and Peter is falling for all of a second before a  _huge_  non-human hand tipped with deadly claws wrap around him, and then an enormous bulk of a body - all glittering copper-bronze scales that are comfortably warm against Peter’s skin, and surprisingly soft to the touch - is coiling protectively around him, followed by the unmistakeable spread of wings to complete the sphere, until even the roar of flames is blocked from his sight and muffled from his ears, leaving him in a cocoon that would probably be dark if not for the scales all around him that seem to glitter with their own light.

Peter brushes a hand over a patch of scales, stunned and awed, mind trying to compute what he’s seeing. Life vibrates under his fingertips like a miniature earthquake, and when he cranes his head around, two large amber-gold eyes blink back at him.

“Stiles,” Peter murmurs faintly, elbows coming to rest on the paw wrapped gently around his torso as he tries to figure out what he wants to say first. “Did you just turn into a dragon in the middle of downtown Beacon Hills?”

Stiles snorts indignantly at him. “Wards, remember?”

Stiles’ voice booms a little but he’s pitched it so that it doesn’t make Peter’s ears ring.

“Until the building collapses,” Peter reminds him sardonically. 

Stiles’ eyes go half-lidded, and his lips peel back to show his fangs. Peter gets the sense that he’s sulking.

“We’ll manage,” Stiles huffs. “I just saved your life. Stop poking holes in my plan.”

Peter shakes his head, more incredulous than actually disagreeing with Stiles.

Stiles is a  _dragon_.

He reaches out lays a palm on Stiles’ snout. Stiles goes still under his touch.

“You are magnificent,” Peter tells him.

Stiles jerks a little like he’s surprised or maybe embarrassed. “You haven’t even seen all of me.”

“I don’t have to,” Peter says, and it’s honest because he’s surrounded by Stiles and it’s like standing in a ball of golden starlight, but warm like sitting in a shaft of sunlight.

A rumble rolls from the depths of Stiles’ chest, pleased and happy, and the scales coating Stiles’ snout turns rust red.

Peter chuckles and fully relaxes in the grip of Stiles’ claws. He didn’t know dragons could blush.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	25. Dioskouroi (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pollux is more than just a toy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Spirit Animals, Preslash
> 
> _Anonymous asked: hey cross! i'm kinda hoping for a drabble? i saw this prompt floating around somewhere about character A still carrying around a stuffed animal and talking to it, and i remembered you liked the calvin &hobbes comic, so i was hoping you could write something along those lines with stiles? up to you if the stuffed animal is really a stuffed animal or a spirit animal or something else entirely. and of course up to you if this interests you enough to write it ^_^_

 

Pollux is Stiles’ best friend. Even more so than Scott is because Pollux has been with him all his life. They grow up together, have adventures together, get into trouble together.

“What’s the point of living if we don’t have some fun?” Pollux always says, twining around Stiles’ legs, all sleek red fur and flicking white-tipped tail and slyly coaxing voice, and soon they’re off running through the woods and playing with the fairies that Pollux has a knack for sniffing out and avoiding the wolves because Pollux doesn’t like them and getting grounded because they returned home far too late once again.

Pollux is there through every hug and kiss his mother gives them when Stiles is really small, and he’s there through every harsh strike and even harsher word his mother’s deteriorating mind hurls at him when Stiles is a little bigger but really not by much and still won’t let a fuming Pollux bite her in defense of Stiles no matter how many bruises he gets or tears he sheds.

Pollux is anchor and comfort both when his mother dies and his father starts passing out drunk on the nights that he happens to make it home from work. He’s the only one who knows Stiles inside out, knows how sad he can get sometimes when he misses his mother and doesn’t see his father for days on end, and how much he sometimes wants to pack a bag for the two of them and just leave and never look back.

(Pollux always talks him out of it, advises him to wait a while longer, to learn to drive and manage his money first, and grow a little more first too so he would look more like an adult because other adults are picky about that sort of thing, and if Stiles still wants to leave after that, then Pollux will - of course - come with him. And because Pollux can be pretty wise for a fox, Stiles always listens.)

Stiles gets teased a lot for it but he doesn’t care. He’s taken Pollux to school with him since he entered preschool, and just because high school in general - with the populace’s sneers and ugly laughter - is even less tolerant of Stiles and Pollux than middle school was, doesn't mean he won't continue letting his fox clamber into his schoolbag every morning. Not that he has much of a choice in the matter; Pollux refuses to be left at home alone, and Stiles doesn’t like not having the fox at his side anyway, so it’s a win-win for both of them.

At least nobody tries to steal Pollux anymore after that one time in middle school when Jackson grabbed him and tossed him into the pool right after Gym let out. Pollux can swim so Stiles wasn’t worried. But he  _was_  mad, and Pollux was even madder because he hates the chemicals found in swimming pools, and he got a mouthful of it when Jackson tried to drown him, so they plotted revenge together, and Jackson was sorry two weeks later when his Bunsen burner exploded the moment he switched it on in Chemistry. Nobody could ever prove it was Stiles and Pollux, but Stiles made sure to catch Jackson’s eye while the boy was being wheeled out on a stretcher, and Pollux bared his teeth in a nasty snarl, and ever since then, the douchebag hasn’t laid a finger on Pollux or even Stiles ever again.

Pollux is faithful in a way no one else can be because he’s seen the worst of what Stiles has lived through and still chooses him every time.

 

* * *

 

The Sheriff forces Stiles to go to therapy once a report from Stiles’ school counselor finally manages to slip past his and Pollux’s combined efforts to hide them. Every single one basically says in patronizingly nice words that it’s worrying for Stiles to still be carrying around a stuffed animal and talking to it like it’s a real person.

“Of course Pollux isn’t a real person!” Stiles huffs indignantly when the Sheriff awkwardly sits him down for a discussion. “He’s a  _fox!”_

The Sheriff shakes his head, and they argue some more about how that’s not the point and isn’t Stiles too old for imaginary friends now and  _make-believe isn’t make-believe now that you’re older Stiles, it’s lying, and lying is wrong, do you understand?_  and-

“Don’t bother,” Pollux snorts from where he’s sitting on the dinner table beside Stiles’ elbow, but he leans into Stiles’ shoulder when he sees Stiles’ hands clenching into fists. “Adults are stupid once they make up their mind and think they know what’s best for you. They’re all grown up, so they don’t see what they used to see anymore. Don’t worry;  _we_  know I’m real.”

Stiles’ shoulders hunch, and he whispers, “Then… will I ever forget?”

“No,” Pollux stretches lazily, both of them ignoring the disapproving frown on the Sheriff’s face.  The fox smiles, all teeth – a threat, a promise.  “Because I won’t let you.”

Stiles smiles back.

They go to therapy. Or well, they go to one session, tune out what the therapist is saying about coping methods and trauma over his mother’s death within five minutes of sitting down, and they never go back again because clearly, the woman doesn’t know what the heck she’s talking about and should be fired.

Pollux helps him forge a letter to the clinic citing that Stiles won’t be going back. Stiles writes because he’s better at mimicking his dad’s handwriting, and Pollux offers his help to make the whole thing sound proper and official.

The Sheriff doesn’t find out what they did until half a year later when he realizes the cost of the therapy sessions haven’t been included in his bills for a while, and by then, with Stiles  _still_  wandering around with Pollux at his side, the man only sighs with a mix of resignation and helplessness and doesn’t bring up the issue again.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is never one hundred percent sure whether or not Scott believes Pollux is real. They’ve known each other since they were seven, and from elementary to high school, Scott has never stopped bidding Pollux a good morning or asking Stiles how Pollux is doing, even when they’re in public. He’s the only one who doesn’t look at Stiles like he’s weird or crazy, or suggest going to a psychologist for his obvious problems. Even Melissa’s brought that up once or twice.

Pollux tells Stiles that Scott has his doubts but is willing to indulge Stiles and accept that they’re a package deal. Pollux is indifferent to Scott, doesn’t really care about him one way or the other, but that’s already better than pretty much everyone else who isn’t Stiles.

 

* * *

 

They’re on another adventure when things begin to change. Scott is tagging along this time, and they’re tramping through the woods looking for a body. Maybe it’s not the smartest thing to do but Stiles and Pollux are curious, and Scott has long since gotten used to going along with Stiles’ whims.

They find the body. Well, half a body, and Stiles is already trying to puzzle out who put her there because it certainly wasn’t a simple animal.

But then Pollux sits up, his ears twitching, and then his head snaps over to Stiles. “There’s police coming! And your father’s with them.”

Stiles relays this to Scott, and they decide to split up and run. Scott goes one way, Stiles and Pollux go another, and Pollux is normally very good at helping Stiles evade being seen, but tonight, he freezes in his tracks a second time, his ears swivel a bit, and then he runs back and begins herding Stiles in the direction of the distant police lights instead of away from them.

“There’s something else out there!” The fox hisses. “And it’s really angry! But maybe it won’t come after us if we’re with more people.”

“Wait but- what about Scott?”

“Too bad; he’s on his own. Now let’s go!”

So they get caught.

And Scott gets turned into a werewolf.

Stiles wants to be mad at Pollux, at least on Scott’s behalf. But Scott’s asthma is healed, and he gets the hot new girl, and he makes first line in lacrosse, and suddenly he’s popular instead of shunned for his asthma and freaky friend, so maybe being Bitten isn’t so bad.

Besides, it’s kind of hard to stay mad at someone who prioritizes you above everyone else. And it’s _Pollux_. Stiles could never stay mad at him.

 

* * *

 

Stiles and Pollux knew about the supernatural ages ago. The forests around Beacon Hills are full of different magical creatures if you know where to look.

But with the crazy Alpha comes other werewolves and hunters and an entire conspiracy spanning back six years, and all of a sudden, Stiles is no longer the weirdest thing in town.

 

* * *

 

Derek is kind of an ass. He also looks like a serial killer on the run, and the first time he tries to shove Stiles up against a wall to threaten him, the werewolf stumbles to a stop just as fast when Pollux leaps at him in a whirl of teeth and claws.

“Did you just throw a stuffed animal at me?” Derek asks incredulously, holding Pollux in his hands like he has no idea what to do next.

Stiles just glares and waves a tazer at Derek with one hand while his other reaches out to let Pollux climb onto his shoulder instead.

“You stay away from me and Pollux!” Stiles snaps. “I already said I’d help you, but if you try and threaten me again, I’ll electrocute you to death.”

“Not if I rip his throat out first,” Pollux mutters silkily, ears flat against his head.

Derek doesn’t look all that scared. He just frowns like a thundercloud and stares at Stiles and then Pollux and then Stiles again.

“I’m terrified,” The bastard deadpans, but the tension between them deflates a little when Derek takes a step back.

“You should be!” Stiles splutters. “I know how to put a tazer to good use, and Pollux may be smaller than you but I bet he’s quicker, and he’ll kill you if you try anything!”

Derek’s eyebrows are now almost high enough to meld with his hairline. But then he sighs and crosses his arms, and he still looks like he has no idea how to argue with the town crazy.

But after that, he doesn’t touch Stiles, and he doesn’t touch Pollux, so Stiles counts it as a win.

 

* * *

 

Stiles meets Peter Hale properly for the first time in the hospital. He has a face ravaged by scars and a deceptively pleasant smile so empty it makes his eyes look like chips of ice.

“You must be Stiles,” The werewolf says, and Stiles clutches tighter at his phone, not moving even as Derek continues yelling in his ear.

And then a nurse appears, a syringe in one hand, and Pollux wrangles his way out of Stiles’ bag and flings himself at her, much the same way he did Derek, except there’s far more lethal intent this time, and the nurse drops the syringe with a yelp when the fox slams into her.

Stiles acts quickly, catching a glimpse of the nurse’s startled expression as he spins and pulls out his tazer.

“Out of the way, Lux!” Stiles yells, and Pollux darts for the floor as the nurse’s arms instinctively come up to fend off Stiles, but it’s too late, and Stiles jabs the device into her side and sends her crashing to the ground in violent convulsions.

Stiles quickly scoops up his fox, and then he whirls back to face Peter again. The werewolf hasn’t moved, he barely glances at his… ally? His gaze lingers with some bemusement on Pollux before focusing on Stiles again, but before he can actually say anything, Derek crashes around the corner and shouts at Stiles to get down before hurtling straight for his uncle.

“Let’s go!” Pollux urges. “They can beat each other up without us.”

Stiles hesitates as Peter throws Derek through a window but doesn’t go in for the kill when he has the chance.

“We can wait outside!” Pollux barks, sinking claws through Stiles’ clothes to prick his skin, just enough to get his attention. “I don’t sense killing intent from him, now come  _on_ , Stiles!”

Stiles goes. Discretion is the better part of valour anyway, and if Peter isn’t aiming to kill Derek, maybe they’ll both be less angry individuals if they get it out of their systems now.

 

* * *

 

Derek is okay in the end. Stiles continues hiding him from the authorities for a while. Scott is off in La La Land with Allison, and Pollux complains on the few occasions Stiles  _does_  see Scott nowadays because he stinks of perfume and sex, which- just no, Stiles did not need to know that, thanks a lot, Lux.

Derek watches him talk to Pollux when the guy’s around to see it but he doesn’t say anything judgmental. He does ask about it once, after Pollux manages to hack into the CCTV system on the street where the Argents are living.

“A fox knows how to hack a CCTV system?” Derek asks gruffly, and they both look at where Pollux is seated on Stiles’ desk in front of the open laptop. Sourwolf can’t argue with results though because the dude stepped into the bathroom for like thirty seconds, and when he came back, Pollux already had the live feed onscreen, and Stiles never moved from his bed where he’s looking over the files for the Hale case that Pollux stole from the police station earlier.

He shrugs in response to Derek’s question. “Pollux is smart.”

Pollux preens. Derek gives them both an odd look, but then he shrugs, and he makes no further comments on it, choosing instead to sit down in front of the laptop and peer over Pollux’s shoulder at the screen, taking care not to disturb the fox from its perch on the desk.

“This one’s okay,” Pollux decides. “It’s not that he believes you or doesn’t believe you. It’s just that he doesn’t give a rat’s tail either way. He’s a lot more concerned about Scotty running around with the Argent girl.”

Huh. Well, Stiles can roll with that.

 

* * *

 

Peter kidnaps him from the Winter Formal after Stiles barters for Lydia’s life. He doesn’t even know why he does it - the girl’s alternated between ignoring him and wrinkling her nose at him with distaste when she sees Pollux ever since they met - but he’s sort of responsible for her tonight since he agreed to be Lydia’s date after Scott begged and Allison spun a tale about Stiles pretending to have a crush on her and Lydia accepting because that’s apparently a good way to make Jackson jealous.

Whatever. At least she couldn’t really complain beyond pursed lips and a disapproving frown when Pollux came along too, wearing a tux that makes him look ruggedly handsome.

Pollux calls him an idiot all the way to the parking garage but he doesn’t interfere even when Peter demands Stiles’ assistance with locating Derek. Stiles kind of wants to know too, and he and Pollux can both understand Peter’s desire to kill Kate, to see his family avenged, to give himself closure.

So they help. And then Peter makes the mistake of asking Stiles if he wants the Bite.

Pollux goes wild with possessive outrage, launching himself at the Alpha before Stiles can stop him. Peter staggers back when Pollux barrels into him, and then he lets Stiles go with a hiss when Pollux sinks his teeth deep into the man’s forearm.

Peter snatches his arm back, and Pollux drops to the concrete floor. Stiles dives after him, hauling the fox into his arms before he attacks again.

When he looks up, Peter is staring between his arm and Stiles and Pollux with something like cautious disbelief.

Because his coat and shirt are torn and soaked with blood, and the injury itself is an unmistakeable bite mark.

And to think, Peter looked amused earlier when Stiles warned him not to do anything to set Pollux off.

“Touch him again and your  _throat_  is next!” Pollux spits, still wriggling furiously against the arms that Stiles has clamped around his furry middle.

“I told you!” Stiles huffs as he struggles with Pollux. “I told you not to do anything to piss him off! And then you go and piss him off! Why does nobody ever listen to me? Lux, settle  _down!”_

Pollux settles. Sort of. He hangs from Stiles’ arms but Stiles gets the feeling that the moment he loosens them, Pollux will lunge again.

“Just go,” Stiles sighs, more tired than anything else. The last few months have been nuts, with people dying and Stiles lying to his dad and running around covering Scott and Derek’s respective asses and just-  _everything_.

“Just go,” Stiles repeats, retreating a step, then two, and then another until they have Stiles’ jeep between them. “I gave you what you wanted so leave me and Lux alone.”

Peter eyes him for a long silent moment, expression inscrutable. The bite wound’s scabbed over by now even though his sleeves are still in tatters.

And then, without another word, he turns for his nurse’s car, slides behind the wheel, and drives away.

Stiles can see the werewolf still watching them from the rear-view mirror.

“ _Wolves_ ,” Pollux growls with disgust.

 

* * *

 

Peter dies that night. Derek becomes the Alpha. Allison isn’t talking to Scott. Scott is angry at Derek for stealing his chance at becoming ‘normal’ again.

Stiles wonders if he knows what exactly that would entail - blood on his hands, asthma, no longer capable of lacrosse, and defenseless in the event that someone tries to attack him. All that, and Stiles actually doubts killing Peter would’ve turned Scott back to human anyway.

But that’s not what Scott wants to hear so Stiles says nothing. Instead, he leaves his friend to moon after Allison to his heart’s content, and Stiles himself wanders the woods once more with Pollux at his side whenever they can now that the excitement’s finally died down.

“For now,” Pollux predicts ominously from where they’re sitting at the edge of a cliff that overlooks a lake below. “But I don’t think it’s over yet.”

Stiles runs fingers through the fox’s fur, absently grooming him as he thinks of werewolves and hunters and the recent arrival of Gerard Argent.

“We’ll be fine,” Stiles nods confidently. “Me and you together, nothing can hurt us.”

Pollux says nothing but he sprawls across Stiles’ lap like a sunning feline, and the knead of his paws against Stiles’ thigh feels a lot like a promise.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	26. To Woo an Emissary (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets a Stiles. Or, well, he will eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Different First Meeting, Preslash, Spark Stiles, Mage Stiles, Alpha Peter, Nemeton
> 
> _Crazedmindofmuses asked: Okay, so I've been stalking this blog forever cuz I love Steter and it is awesome having a place where I can go to leave the rest of the world behind and enjoy at least some kind of happiness. Sooo, could I get a drabble where Peter is alpha and Stiles decides to be his emissary? Pretty please?_

 

“I might know someone,” Scott of all people pipes up, and all eyes swivel over to where he’s sitting on the couch with Kira beside him, holding hands.

Peter arches an eyebrow at his Beta. “Oh? Is it another ex-girlfriend?”

Scott scowls at him. Allison’s still a touchy subject. Peter just smiles back patronizingly. Very likely, if either of them had a choice in the matter, they wouldn’t be in the same pack. Peter doesn’t mind having opinionated people around him - he welcomes it even because obedient robots are plain boring - but Scott’s soft approach is simply  _too_  soft, and he’s far too outspoken about it to boot. Just last month, Peter was at a conference out of town, and he made the mistake of leaving Derek in charge. His dearest nephew is still looking to redeem himself, absolve himself of guilt, and Scott’s ideals apparently appeal to his quest for redemption. They allowed a witch with a body count of over twenty to leave after she promised to change her evil ways, and she killed four more before Peter managed to catch up to her and rip her throat out.

That was the easy part. The shit they got for it from the Tribunal had Peter demoting both Derek and Scott to the most inconvenient patrol shifts he could possibly spring on them - dawn shift, in the middle of one of Scotty’s dates, midway through dinner. Also, they’ve been on bathroom duty at the pack house ever since. And that’s after Peter kicked both their asses once the Tribunal was more or less appeased and assured that Beacon Hills won’t let another serial killer go free again.

“No,” Scott huffs now. “I don’t- Look, it’s a guy. My best friend. He’s really into wards and magic and stuff so I think he could help.”

Isaac looks a little affronted at the ‘best friend’ description. Teenagers, honestly.

Peter regards his first Beta coolly for a moment, long enough for Scott to start fidgeting. In the end, it isn’t even Peter who voices the most obvious question.

“You’ve been telling other people about the supernatural?” Lydia demands from across the room where she’s sitting next to Jackson. “I think it goes without saying that you’re not supposed to talk about it with outsiders, McCall.”

“What? No!” Scott yelps, brow crinkling in confusion, which - Peter reflects with caustic amusement - isn’t a rare look on him. “I didn’t tell him! He told me! Stiles knew about this stuff way before I was even Bitten.”

This piques Peter’s curiosity a little more. “Stiles? How long have you known him? What is he?”

“We grew up together,” Scott explains. “Here in Beacon Hills so I’ve known him since like kindergarten. And he’s… human?”

The confusion’s back. Peter sighs.

“Wait,” Jackson interjects this time, sneer already twisting his features. Someone really needs to tell him it isn’t a good look on him. “Stiles? Your best friend? Are you talking about that freaky spaz who used to be in our classes and followed you around? The Sheriff’s crazy kid?”

Peter raises an eyebrow again when Scott’s eyes suddenly flare gold, his spine goes ramrod straight, and a hint of fang peeks out from behind his lips as he rounds on Jackson.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Scott practically spits out. “You were always jealous of him. He could run circles around you at school and you knew it.”

Jackson’s expression turns ugly, even when his much more sensible girlfriend puts a hand on his forearm.

“Then where is he now?” The boy snaps. “Everyone knows he was expelled. Probably cheated his way through-”

“He  _graduated_ ,” Scott cuts him off, voice an odd mix of fury and pride and triumph. Lydia stiffens. “He graduated high school at fourteen ’cause that was the condition he needed to meet to get an apprenticeship but he kept it quiet. Stiles doesn’t need to cheat. I bet you started that rumour in the first place.”

He’s halfway out of his seat even with Kira hanging anxiously onto him, and Jackson looks equally ready to throw down right then and there.

Peter rolls his eyes but he doesn’t bother getting up as he lets his eyes bleed red, snarling, “Enough. Sit down, both of you.  _Now_.”

The two teens instinctively flinches when Peter’s words come out clipped and cold with command. Jackson sits first, throat subtly bared. Scott is slower to obey but he avoids Peter’s gaze all the same.

“Now then, you two are welcome to hash out your differences in your own time,” Peter smiles with faux pleasantness. “But if we could get back to the matter at hand, it would be much appreciated.”

He pauses, satisfied when nobody tries to whip out their metaphorical dicks again. “Scott, you mentioned an apprenticeship.”

Scott nods grudgingly. “Yeah. He- Stiles found out about magic when he was… eleven?”

“How?” Peter prods. People don’t just  _find out_  about magic.

“Um, self-defense,” Scott mumbles, looking momentarily shifty-eyed. “You’ll have to ask him for details.”

Peter will, but he also doesn’t have to because  _self-defense_  says so very much.

“Your friend is a Spark,” Peter straightens in his seat.

“A… Spark?” Scott shakes his head. “No, he’s a mage.”

Peter rolls his eyes again. “Yes, that would make sense. Mages are people whose source of magic comes from themselves. From their Spark. They’re born with it. Druids on the other hand have no innate magic of their own. They mix ingredients, use spells, perform rituals and the like to produce feats of magic. That’s what Deaton does, what Morrell does, even what Blake did, Darach or no. In general, druids are always weaker than mages, but there are certainly more of them. Anyone with the correct knowledge and practice in their hands can become a druid. But Sparks are rare, once-in-a-lifetime rare. And if left untrained, well, just don’t leave them untrained. If your friend lashed out with magic out of self-defense, then he’s a Spark.”

He leans back. A Spark. Now that’s worth looking into. Also-

“This Stiles,” Peter sweeps an eye over Scott. “Was he the one helping you with control?”

Because it wasn’t Peter; he was mostly out of his mind and focused on revenge at the time. And it certainly wasn’t Derek; the very idea of his socially inept, violence-solves-everything nephew patiently walking Scott through being a newly Bitten werewolf is laughable at best.

“Uh, yeah,” Scott nods. “I mean, I already knew about werewolves - Stiles told me about them - so I knew when I was Bitten.” There’s still something faintly accusatory in his expression when he looks at Peter. “I contacted him right away, and he talked me and my parents through how to handle my first full moon. He kept asking if he should come back but I think he was neck-deep in getting rid of some ghouls haunting a swamp outside a village in… Norway? Something like that. So I was okay with Skype.”

Peter’s eyebrows are raised by the time Scott is finished. He isn’t the only one. “And he’s seventeen? Who is he apprenticed to?”

“Jenny,” Scott frowns. “Jenny Owens.”

Peter blinks. “Genevieve Owens?”

“I guess?”

Now that’s… that’s _fascinating_. Genevieve is a druid but she’s also one of the most powerful ones in the world. Retired now, though. Doesn’t take jobs from anyone. Peter has met her once, when she came to Beacon Hills for a job that Peter’s mother hired her for, and what little he can remember of her back then, she was already terrifying. A loner, a freelancer, attached to no pack, preferring to travel the world and work wherever she wants, and dropping off the Tribunal’s radar more often than not.

Most of all, she has never taken on an apprentice. People have asked, even begged; Genevieve is famous for refusing every time. Word has it that the last time someone got pushy about an apprenticeship, he ended up buck naked in quicksand.

But perhaps a Spark is a different matter?

“How did Genevieve find your friend?” Peter enquires.

“She… didn’t?” Scott shrugs. “Stiles found her.”

“Stiles found her,” Peter repeats flatly.

“Yeah. Stiles is…” Scott pauses like he doesn’t know how to describe his best friend. “When Stiles wants something, I guess he’s the sort of person that doesn’t stop until he gets it. He wanted to learn magic, and it isn’t as if he could walk into a bookstore and buy some magic books, so he tracked down someone who could, and he sort of nagged Jenny until she gave in.”

Until she gave in. Clearly, Scott has no idea that that just isn’t something that happens, not when it comes to Genevieve Owens.

“She gave him an ultimatum,” Scott continues. “Said magic was something you had to devote yourself to, not a hobby on the side. So she told him that if he really wanted to become a mage, make a career out of it, she would come back for him in two years, and she expected him to be finished his schooling by then.” A smile spreads across his face. “Stiles finished in a year and a half, phoned Jenny, and asked if he could start his apprenticeship early. Jenny sort of yelled at him a bit - something about being a little shit - and then she came back early anyway.”

Peter actually has to suppress a smirk. Well, now he  _wants_  to meet Stiles. Every word out of Scott’s mouth just makes the boy sound more interesting.

Although… He glances over at Jackson, who seems to be brooding. “You said he’s the Sheriff’s son? Wouldn’t that make him and Scott brothers?”

“Step-brothers,” Scott answers. “The Sheriff married my mom a year ago.”

Peter cocked his head. “And he was okay with his son’s decision to run off with a woman he probably doesn’t know very well and travel the world learning about magic?”

There’s a reason apprenticeships usually mean that the master has to make plans to stay in one place for at least half a decade or so, not taking any jobs that might require travelling. Genevieve is quite possibly the only druid who’s taken to dragging her apprentice around the globe. Retired she may be but Peter’s pretty sure age hasn’t slowed her down.

Scott is frowning again, and a grimace crosses his face. “Well no, the Sheriff didn’t really approve. But they’re- it’s complicated. Nobody stops Stiles from doing what he wants, not even his dad. Maybe especially not his dad.”

The last bit is a near inaudible mutter but Peter hears it anyway. He eyes Scott for a few seconds longer before dropping that particular line of interrogation. It’s not overly important anyway.

“Contact him,” Peter instructs instead, unfolding from his seat and rising to his feet. “You can give him the details. And if he’s anything like Genevieve, then tell him Alpha Hale will pay whatever monetary price he names once his work is done.”

Scott - for once - brightens instead of bristling under Peter’s orders. He nods, tugging Kira up with him even as he fumbles for his phone. Jackson grumbles under his breath, and Lydia looks alarmingly thoughtful. Isaac is still sulking. Derek glowers at everyone from his little corner of manpain.

Peter ignores them all, coming to a stop next to a window looking out at the forest instead.

Stiles. What an unexpected find, and from Scott McCall of all people. If the boy can live up to Peter’s expectations… well.

The entire reason they need someone knowledgeable in magic is because Peter doesn’t have an Emissary of his own.

 

* * *

 

As it turns out, Stiles is Peter’s height, lithely muscled, and moon-pale with mole-dotted skin, and he wears the most awful-looking plaid shirts Peter has ever laid eyes on.

He’s still undeniably pretty, and when Scott introduces them, the smile on Stiles’ face is fox-sly and reminds Peter of a hidden knife between the ribs.

“Alpha Hale,” Stiles greets, sizing Peter up as much as Peter is sizing him up. “I’ve heard loads about you. None of it was good.”

Beside them, Scott flushes red and splutters with horror. Stiles grins and shakes Peter’s hand with a grip that speaks of threat and challenge both.

Peter is already irrevocably charmed, and they haven’t even gotten to the job specifics yet.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Peter smiles, close enough to breathe in Stiles’ scent. It settles in his lungs like a spring storm. “I’ve heard much about you as well. All of it was rather… insightful.”

“Was it?” Whiskey-amber eyes blink guilelessly. “I hope I live up to your expectations then. And please call me Stiles.”

“Peter then,” Peter counters. “Let me introduce you to my Pack, and then we can get down to business.”

Stiles inclines his head. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Peter does, with Scott trailing behind them. Two minutes in and they’re already playing a game of give and take.

Power simmers under Stiles’ skin. And Peter already wants to devour him whole.

 

* * *

 

“Did Alan Deaton actually say he couldn’t do anything or was he just being a cryptic fucker about it?” Stiles enquires idly as he circles the tainted Nemeton once more, fingers dancing in the air as he traces runes all around it like he’s painting a blank canvas.

Peter leans against a nearby tree and admires the boy’s meticulous work. He doesn’t know all the runes being used but he understands the gist of it as Stiles prepares to cleanse the tree.

“I believe ‘cryptic fucker’ is Deaton’s perpetual state of being,” Peter replies dryly, and Stiles snorts out a laugh. “So it would be the latter. Why do you think he isn’t my Emissary?”

It’s been a little over a week since Stiles arrived, and from what Peter has seen, the boy is nothing like Scott. Why the two are friends at all is a mystery. Then again, opposites do attract.

Stiles is… charismatic, in his own sarcastic, clever way. He’s already well on his way to becoming fast friends with Kira, making her laugh with embarrassing childhood stories from Scott’s past. Lydia wasted no time approaching Stiles, determined to pick the boy’s brain about anything and everything, and Stiles’ willingness to share at least some of what he knows - not to mention treating Lydia like he’s entirely aware of just how smart she is - has won him points with her, much to Jackson’s irritated dismay.

Isaac’s kept his distance so far, sticking to an oblivious Scott like a barnacle. Stiles smirks at him like he knows exactly how jealous Isaac is but he’s gracious enough not to point it out.

And Derek… Stiles calls Derek a sourwolf within ten minutes of meeting each other, Derek tries to slam Stiles into a wall because the caveman has  _no_  manners whatsoever, and the only thing Stiles does is laugh and casually detach Derek’s hand from his shirt as if  _he’s_  the werewolf between the two of them.

Stiles also made cookies, and Peter suspected foul play after biting into one and immediately wanting to steal the rest for himself. Even Derek looked mollified after munching on a rabbit-shaped cookie.

He offered the mage room and board at the pack house. Considering what Stiles is doing for them, it was only polite.

Stiles accepted, except he’s also a bit of an insomniac like Peter, and two nights in, they ended up playing chess before moving on to Risk. They were pretty even - Stiles took over half the world, Peter took the other half, and then they took turns trying to eliminate each other because neither of them could gain much ground over the other. It was the most fun Peter can remember having in a long time, and the Pack found them giggling disturbingly over Australia in the morning.

The morning after that arguably freaked them out even more when they woke up to Peter and Stiles snarking and shouting at each other while playing Mario Kart as Boo and Yoshi respectively and mostly just trying to see who could sabotage and shove the other off the racetrack more often rather than focusing on getting to the finish line.

Bottom line, Peter wants to  _keep Stiles_ , especially after they released Jennifer Blake from where they trapped her in the Nemeton to prevent her from poisoning the tree even more than she already has, only for Stiles to drain the Nemeton’s magic from her until she was nothing but a disfigured husk of a corpse, never batting so much as an eyelash.

“I don’t need her to fix the Nemeton,” Stiles explained as he toed the body, looking it over with a critical eye. “I take it that’s why you hadn’t killed her yet, just in case? Well, problem solved.”

Scott freaked out, Stiles talked him down because  _dude she wouldn’t have stopped, even if we destroyed this one, she would’ve just moved on to another Nemeton, she was addicted to the power, half her life force was coming from it already anyway_ , and that was that.

Apparently, if it’s Stiles’s judgement, Scott is okay with it.

Now the mage just has to cleanse the Nemeton, and everything will be okay again. He needs another two days, so Peter has two days to convince the boy to stay.

“Are you looking into any packs to put down roots with?” Peter asks now.

Stiles hums noncommittally and circles the Nemeton again. “Not really. Nothing’s caught my eye. Jenny encourages independence so maybe I’ll be like her and do freelance work. I’m strong enough to give the Tribunal a big fuck you too.”

Peter smirks. It’s probably nice not to have the Tribunal breathing down your neck. At the same time, fully established stable packs are pretty much left to supervise themselves.

“I have a free spot in my Pack if you feel like experiencing the stationary life for a while,” Peter offers outright. “You seem to get along with most of them already.”

Stiles tosses him an unreadable look. “You’re not very subtle.”

Peter shrugs. “I wasn’t trying to be. It’s never a good idea to manipulate a potential Emissary, even indirectly. You’ve proven yourself very capable. And I like you, Stiles. I want you in my Pack.”

Stiles goes still, one hand resting flat against the trunk of the tree. Magic pulses under his palm, and gold light begins threading outwards, weaving around the Nemeton before stretching across the clearing. One brushes Peter’s arm, and his next inhale is as sweet as the first breath of air you draw after nearly drowning.

He sags against the tree for a moment. His mind feels less cluttered, lighter and clearer, and all the stress he’s accumulated - arguably since he woke up from his coma - rolls off his muscles like water until it feels as if a weight he’s been unknowingly carrying around has been lifted.

He looks up and sees Stiles smirking at him, but his eyes are softer than usual. Most of the gold threads have faded but light continues swirling around the Nemeton even as Stiles makes his way over to Peter.

“Now we just wait,” Stiles tells him. “It’ll be healthy again in about two days.”

For a while after that, they stand side by side without speaking, watching the Nemeton, but the silence between them is strangely charged and comfortable at the same time.

“You Bit Scott,” Stiles remarks first, deceptively mild.

Peter nods. “I regret it.” In more than one way. He keeps that to himself but Stiles looks sideways at him like he can hear it anyway.

“Jenny warned me about this place,” Stiles continues, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Said the last time she was here, her entire lifestyle was drop-kicked outta the stratosphere by a brat in diapers. Old hag.”

His tone is exasperatedly fond.

“I told her there’s no way anything could change my mind about staying here. I mean I couldn’t wait to leave the first time around.”

Peter says nothing as Stiles finally turns to look at him.

“I lied,” Stiles announces offhandedly. “When I said nothing I heard about you was good. Or maybe I didn’t, depending on how you look at it. But Scott did say one thing in-between complaining about all your faults.”

He tilts his head, not enough to bare his throat, but the slender stretch of Stiles’ neck is tempting anyway.

“And what did he say?” Peter prompts, curious despite himself.

Stiles’ smile is almost amused. “He said I’d like you.”

Ah. That’s-

Peter drifts forward a step into Stiles’ personal space. “And do you?”

Stiles leans in, close enough for their cheeks to brush, and Peter growls, low and possessive.

Stiles pulls back, laughter glittering in his eyes. The damn tease.

“Give me a reason to stay,” The mage declares. “And I’ll let you know.”

He bounces off in the direction of the Hale house, and Peter is helpless to do anything but follow, chasing after Stiles with his wolf urging him on.

If Stiles wants a reason, then Peter will give him more than one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	27. Venom Ridge (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All little kids want their own secret hideout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Preslash, Canon Divergence, Wolf Peter, Fluff, Comfort

 

Venom Ridge is one of the highest cliffs in Beacon Hills. Nobody hikes up there because of all the poison oak and stinging nettle growing in the area, wild and untouched by human hands.

Stiles likes it for exactly that reason. Nobody goes up there. It’s like a little haven for him, and unless you’ve found the one perfect pathway through the poisonous plants like Stiles did (after a bit of trial and error that resulted in some very uncomfortable rashes), the natural wildlife growing there is as good as any castle moat.

The first time he went, it was an accident. Back when he was eight, and his mother was alive and crazy, he just couldn’t take her insults and violence anymore so he left. His father was working overtime again so nobody stopped him from walking out, walking away, and he kept on walking until the streets and buildings around him were replaced by dirt and trees and an uphill climb that he probably should’ve turned back from but didn’t. Somehow, he managed to trip his way straight into some shrubs that had his skin itching in no time. He was surrounded by the stuff so he simply kept powering through, and then he found the ridge, a grassy area that dwindled to rock, which then ended abruptly in a drop that had to be seventy feet, easily.

He left when the sun began to set. He knew at least how to navigate his way back to civilization by walking towards the sunset, and thoughts of how his mother was doing without any help on hand prodded him home.

But he goes back. He does some research and discovers Venom Ridge, and he’s thrilled with the thought of having a place that would be just his, so whenever he wants to be alone, especially after his mother is moved to the psych ward at the hospital, and his dad throws himself into his work even more, Stiles would go back to the ridge, exploring, and it doesn’t even take that long to figure out a safe way through the nettles and poison oak once he puts his mind to it.

One of the trees in the area had a small hollow in it, big enough to fit some books and other knick-knacks in it over the years. Stiles is never stupid enough to leave food there of course, and he kept it all in various Ziploc bags even though the tree hollow was deep enough to prevent any rain from entering. Squirrels and other small animals never try to make it their home despite coming and going from the ridge more than Stiles; they must smell the human scents that Stiles inevitably leaves and know that the hollow is occupied.

When Stiles is twelve, he buys himself a huge tent and lugs it up to Venom Ridge. The few times he went camping with his parents back when his mom was still well enough to  _be his mom_ , it was his dad who did most of the setting up, but Stiles finds that it isn’t too hard with an instruction manual on hand, and he doesn’t give up until the end result isn’t even lopsided.

He leaves the tent there, tacked into the ground in the shade of a few branched out trees to protect it from storms, a good dozen feet away from the cliff edge. He brings pillows and blankets and a sleeping bag, and it’s like a home away from home, a secret clubhouse just for him. He’d bring Scott but… well, his best friend probably wouldn’t be able to make it up all the way to the ridge with his asthma anyway, and Venom Ridge was Stiles’ even before he met Scott. It’s a harmless secret so Stiles doesn’t feel guilty about not sharing it.

The small animals living up on the ridge get used to Stiles. Sometimes, if Stiles is very quiet and very still in his tent, reading or dozing or even doing his homework, a squirrel or chipmunk, an opossum on occasion, more than once a blue jay that Stiles identifies as a western scrub jay and would swear it’s always the same one, meanders into his tent to keep him company. They leave when he leaves, which is good because he has to zip up the tent before he heads home, taking care to grab any leftover food and garbage as well.

His dad never finds out. The Sheriff lives at the bottom of a whiskey bottle on the rare occasions when he stays the night at the house, and Stiles doesn’t tell him. Even after it gets a little better, with healthy meals that Stiles forces on him by insisting at home and ambushing him at the station, Stiles doesn’t say a word.

 

* * *

 

After Scott is Bitten and Peter Hale is dead and Derek is going around Biting self-esteem-deprived teenagers, Stiles starts spending even more time at Venom Ridge. He hates the disappointed looks his dad gives him, hates being ignored by Scott in favour of AllisonAllisonAllison, and if Derek Hale shoves him around one more time, Stiles is going to take a leaf out of the Argents’ books and taze the shit out of the stupid Alpha until he’s a drooling mess on the ground.

Venom Ridge provides its own special brand of comfort. He isn’t as lonely up here even though he’s alone, which is kind of sad in and of itself.

The Sheriff is out of town for the weekend, dealing with a case in another part of the county, so Stiles packs a bag and heads up there with no intention of coming down again until Monday morning.

He spends hours poring over his illicitly-gained copy of the Argent Bestiary as well as some magic texts he managed to wheedle out of Deaton. Stiles excels at being so annoying that the other person caves just to get rid of him.

It takes longer than just that weekend but Stiles achieves what he wants - he gets wifi up in his little tent in the middle of nowhere. He may or may not whoop loud enough for the sound to echo across the valley below. After that, electricity and hot water is a piece of cake. A variety of useful spells too, which is a relief because Stiles can finally upgrade that outhouse he built two minutes away. He buys a refrigerator to celebrate, stocking it up with ice-cream. Wards keep animals from digging into the perishables, and suddenly, he no longer has to lug food up and down the mountain every time he heads up to the ridge.

It’s awesome. He’s awesome.

Of course, nothing’s very awesome once he gets beaten up by Gerard just to send a message to Scott. For an old guy, the Argent patriarch sure knows how to hit where it’ll do the most harm. By the time Stiles is dumped in a ditch halfway into town, his breathing hurts, he can’t walk without a limp, and each swallow tastes like blood.

His dad is relieved to see him, and Stiles allows himself to bask in it for a couple seconds before shutting himself away in his room to lick his wounds where no one will see the extent of them.

He wishes he was on Venom Ridge. It’s safer there.

The night’s not over though, and Stiles ends up crashing his jeep into Jackson, which is probably the highlight of this entire shitty day. It’s just too bad he didn’t manage to kill the damn lizard.

When all is said and done, and Jackson and Lydia have re-enacted a fix-it scene straight out of Romeo and Juliet, Stiles is left standing on the side, cold even with his arms wrapped around himself and trying not to shake apart at the seams. Scott doesn’t notice his injuries, too busy hovering next to Allison who no longer seems as psychotic. Gerard has disappeared. Derek glares at everyone, glares extra hard at Scott, doesn’t spare a glance for Stiles, and then he and Isaac are skulking away into the shadows like a pair of wannabe Edward Cullens.

Peter the resident undead is nowhere to be seen.

Stiles looks around. There’s nothing left here for him to do so he shuffles away as well, heading for his jeep and praying the repair bill won’t kill him since nothing else seems to have managed it in the past several months.

His precious car is banged up but still functioning at least. He climbs into the driver’s seat and pulls away. Nobody calls after him. Nobody even looks in his direction.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t go home. It isn’t even really a conscious decision. He drives and drives until cement becomes gravel and gravel becomes earth, and he can’t drive anymore. Then he parks and makes the rest of the way on foot.

He’s beyond exhausted by the time he gets to Venom Ridge but it’s worth it as he crawls into his tent, strips down to his boxers, activates the heating runes, and collapses on top of his sleeping bag.

He’s asleep within seconds.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost noon the next day when he wakes. There are no texts or missed calls waiting for him, which isn’t really a surprise. His cell is low on battery though so he leaves it on the makeshift nightstand where intricate patterns of runes have been meticulously carved into it. His phone immediately begins charging.

Magic is a wonderful thing. Stiles missed out in his first sixteen years. What a waste.

He stretches before rolling to his feet, not bothering to get dressed. There’s a tiny lake about four minutes away, converted into a hot spring and bath the moment Stiles learned how to make things hot. The runes carved into the rocks surrounding the lake has the water steaming and clean every time.

He grabs a few towels and soap before ducking out of his tent.

And then he almost brains himself when he trips over a massive bulk of fur settled  _right in front of the tent flap_.

“Holy  _shit!_ ” Stiles yelps as he lands with a thud and then hastily scrambles back from the humongous wolf now staring at him from where its head is resting on its paws.

It doesn’t attack. Heart still pounding, Stiles eyes it with cautious trepidation. The animal is black all over, big in a way that Stiles has never seen in the pictures of wolves he’s seen on the internet, and scruffy like it hasn’t groomed itself in a long while.

It also has strikingly intelligent blue eyes, and that’s what makes Stiles pause.

He slows to a stop and glances around. There, on the far side at the base of a tree, is a puddle of clothes. He looks back at the wolf. “…Peter?”

The wolf huffs out a breath. One of its ears twitches.

Stiles heaves a sigh. “ _Jesus Christ_ , talk about giving a guy a heart-attack.”

He stares at the wolf some more. Aside from being bigger than your average canine, it isn’t that different from a regular wolf. Certainly nowhere near as monstrous-looking as Peter’s feral Alpha form.

He clambers to his feet, wincing when his ribs are jostled. As if on cue, the wolf - Peter - rises as well, padding over and nosing at the purple-blue welts and bruises marring his skin like a morbid painting. A dangerous growl rumbles up from the depths of the wolf’s chest.

Stiles sighs again. Like this, Peter’s head is at Stiles’ chest height, and he doesn’t protest when Stiles tentatively reaches out and brushes fingers through the coarse fur along Peter’s scruff.

“I was about to go take a bath,” Stiles finally says. “You wanna come?”

Peter snuffles a noise that sounds like agreement so Stiles nods and heads off towards the lake.

He thinks he should be more wary. Shout perhaps, try and chase Peter away.

But he’s still tired, and he aches all the way down to his bones. And for some reason, Peter followed him and guarded him through the night and isn’t leaving even now.

Stiles can’t bring himself to turn the company away, even if it  _is_  creepy undead Peter.

 

* * *

 

Peter turns human after dunking himself in the lake a few times, probably because Stiles is neither willing nor able - considering his post-Gerard physical condition - to scrub him down with the bar of  _human_  soap. So Stiles gets flashed a whole lot more of Peter than he ever expected to see, and Peter smirks his way over to the hot spring, sitting on the edge with only his feet dunked into the lapping water on the shallowest side.

Stiles is very careful not to look too deeply into the reasons behind that. Bringing up the whole you-were-burned-alive-once-already-and-I-set-you-on-fire-a-second-time thing might make this already weird situation a tad too awkward.

“Do you come here often then?” Peter enquires idly, blue eyes intent on Stiles’ face, completely unashamed about his nude state.

Stiles shrugs one shoulder, the one that doesn’t look like someone took a wrench to it. “Some. I found it by accident. It’s my place.”

He sinks deeper into the hot spring until he’s submerged in it, water closing over the top of his head. He keeps his eyes closed, cross-legged and calm. Sound is muffled. Like this, everything seems so peaceful.

He doesn’t come up for air until his lungs are tight and clamoring for oxygen. He wipes water from his eyes and finds Peter watching him, mouth a little pinched, one leg propped up like he was about to stand.

“What?”

Peter puts his foot back in the water. “You were under for over a minute.”

Stiles blinks. “Oh. Well I’m a pretty good swimmer. I go swimming here all the time. All the magic and runes are new of course but the lake was always here.”

He tilts his head back and stares up at the sky. There’s no one around them for miles. “Why’d you follow me anyway?”

He senses more than sees Peter shrug. “I wondered where you were going when you didn’t head home.”

Stiles casts a critical eye over the werewolf but doesn’t press for more. Neither of them talks again while Stiles soaks for a little longer, and then Stiles chucks a spare towel at Peter before tying one around his own waist and heading back to camp. Peter follows, rubbing the towel through his hair before slinging it over one shoulder with a wicked grin and a swagger in his step when he catches Stiles’ eye.

Stiles sort of wants to dropkick him off the cliff.

He gets dressed once he’s back at the tent, and he digs up some pants and a shirt for Peter, scowling until the guy puts them on. Peter’s own clothes are somewhat torn from his part in bringing down the kanima yesterday.

Stiles’ eyes linger once Peter’s dressed. The plaid shirt is a bit strange on the werewolf but Peter still somehow manages to make it look good. And then he sees Peter watching him and he flushes and whirls away.

Peter totally laughs at him, even if he does it in tones too quiet for Stiles to hear.

It’s lunchtime, so Stiles cooks. He has a microwave and a kettle and a pseudo-stove/oven that used to be a metal box but now has about a dozen runes decorating it.

“You can come in,” Stiles calls out when he senses Peter lurking just out of sight. “Stop loitering outside like some creepy stalker.”

Peter is surprisingly respectful of Stiles’ space. He even wipes his feet off before stepping inside. His eyes are bright as they take in the interior, the nest of blankets and pillows, the small bookshelf crammed with books, the tiny runes inked into the four corners of the tent.

“Do you keep your tent pitched year-round?” Peter asks as he takes a seat on the edge of the bedding.

“Yup,” Stiles squints at the potato skins and adjusts the temperature. “It’s a lot less work. And ever since I put up wards, I haven’t even had to deal with bugs.”

He straightens and turns to peer at Peter. Peter arches an eyebrow. The werewolf has a stupidly perfect physique compared to your average human of course, but Stiles takes in the sharpness of his cheekbones, the slight hollowness in his face, and he remembers - from earlier - that he could see Peter’s ribs whenever the man stood directly in Stiles’ line of sight. For a werewolf, that’s  _really bad_.

He stoops to rifle through his fridge. More food won’t hurt.

He ignores the itch of Peter’s gaze on his back.

 

* * *

 

They eat outside, legs hanging over the edge of the cliff. Stiles has never been afraid of heights. Maybe he desensitized himself by coming here so often.

“I used to stand here,” Stiles waves a hand at where they’re sitting, his other holding half a potato skin oozing cheese. “Whenever it happened to storm. The wind can get pretty crazy up here.”

Peter’s already devoured a salad, twelve potato skins, and a side of chicken wings, and now he’s starting on the pizza. Elegantly of course, but that just makes it even more amazing.

“Ever thought about jumping?” Peter asks, and his tone is so pleasant and offhand that he has to be feeling anything but.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits readily. “But only ‘cause-” He sweeps an arm out, eyes on the horizon, beyond the trees, where sky meets land. “-doesn’t it feel like you could fly if you jumped?”

Peter’s head cocks. “No. But then, werewolves are creatures of the land.” He side-eyes Stiles for a thoughtful minute. “I suppose it isn’t that much of a surprise that you’d prefer the air.”

Stiles blinks at him, bemused. Peter doesn’t elaborate, returning to his pizza marathon instead.

Stiles swings his legs a little, finishing off the rest of his potato skins. His phone buzzes with an incoming text just as he’s wiping his fingers.

“It’s Scott,” Stiles announces when Peter glances over. “Allison’s broken up with him. Again. Or for good. I’m not sure which.”

Peter rolls his eyes, hard. He could not look more fed up if he tried.

Stiles’ phone keeps buzzing, all from Scott, first about the breakup, then about how he’s willing to wait, then about how Allison sounded so  _final_ , then about how he still loves her and he’s sure she still loves him, then about how he’s watching her through her bedroom window right now and she looks  _so sad_ , then about how maybe Stiles could carry a message for him to Allison since Allison said she needed space to figure some things out, then about-

“Give me that,” Peter snaps at last, snatching Stiles’ phone and turning it off. “I have zero interest in Scotty’s love life, Stiles, and don’t get me started on the Argent girl. I don’t understand why you put up with this.”

“Scott’s my best friend!” Stiles protests, taking his phone back but not turning it on again. “And Allison’s not so bad. I mean when she isn’t buying into Gerard’s crap.”

“He didn’t even ask after your injuries!” Peter snarls back, something deadly making his eyes spark electric blue.

Stiles flinches. Peter goes silent.

They drop the subject.

 

* * *

 

“You don’t have to stick around,” Stiles tells Peter a few hours later. They’re back inside the tent, with the doors tied back to let the breeze and sunshine in. Stiles has been dozing on and off. Peter is reading the Argent bestiary with a certain amount of vindictive glee.

Peter flicks an unreadable look at him. Stiles clarifies, “Don’t you have something more interesting to do? You can leave anytime. I really don’t do much up here except-”

He gestures at their general surroundings. Peter raises his eyebrows briefly before turning back to the bestiary. “If you want me gone, Stiles, just say so. Personally, I have nothing particularly pressing to get to. No one is waiting for me, and I’ll have to go apartment-hunting before I’ll have a place of my own to sleep in. And that’s after I steal my share of the family money and life insurance payouts since I very much doubt my darling nephew will voluntarily give me a single cent. But I’d rather not live in whatever hellhole Derek is squatting in this time, and I’ll pass on giving him a chance to rip my throat out again, so needs must.”

Stiles’ jaw hangs open for a few seconds before he closes his mouth. He studies Peter for a long moment. And then he returns to mostly just trying to use the power of his mind to will his injuries to heal faster.

He doesn’t tell Peter to leave.

 

* * *

 

The sun sets. Dinnertime rolls around. His dad texts to say he’ll be working late so Stiles doesn’t have to go home or make up a lie about staying at Scott’s.

Peter is asleep. That’s an honest shock. The bestiary’s been put aside, and the werewolf is sort of curled in on himself on top of the blankets, a pillow clutched in his arms in a way that still lets his head lie on it, mere feet away from Stiles. His breathing comes even and slow, and the lines on his face seem to have been smoothed away in his slumber.

Mostly, Stiles just wonders over the fact that Peter is willing to conk out around him but there’s no mistaking it - the guy’s out like a light. He supposes coming back from the dead is hard work.

He crawls out of bed as quietly as he can physically manage, tiptoeing over to the entrance of the tent where his makeshift kitchen is.

Pasta sounds good. And he just bought a few slices of steak a few days ago.

 

* * *

 

Peter jolts awake when Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder, and for a moment, with his hair mussed and a crease line from the pillow rapidly fading from one cheek, he stares at Stiles with an expression so vulnerable it makes something in Stiles’ chest  _ache_.

“Hey,” Stiles says softly. “Dinner’s ready. Think you’re up for some steak and pasta?”

Peter blinks once, twice, and then his usual confidence slides into place as he pulls himself into a sitting position and rakes fingers through his hair. “Of course.”

Stiles’ hand slides from the man’s shoulder as he starts to turn. Peter catches it before he can move away.

The werewolf doesn’t say anything. But there’s something off about the look in his eyes, soft and reverent, and he doesn’t let go until Stiles clears his throat because his ears feel hot under the intensity of that regard.

They eat dinner. Peter is as ravenous as he was at lunch. They talk about how Peter’s going to get his identity back and whether or not he’ll retake the bar exam. They talk about the culinary schools Stiles wants to apply to come next year instead of a ‘proper’ university or college. They talk about where Boyd and Erica are, leaving when the going got tough, and the pack laws about that sort of betrayal to their Alpha. They both bemoan Derek’s near nonexistent potential as that Alpha.

They talk about Gerard.

“I’ll kill him for you,” Peter offers, light and casual, but Stiles hears the threat, the promise.

Stiles thinks about it. Considers how much he’s still hurting. “…Then I’ll find him.”

Peter smiles at him, dark and fierce, and Stiles really shouldn’t want to grin back. He buries the urge in his pasta but Peter notices it anyway.

 

* * *

 

They go to bed that night next to each other. As far as Stiles was aware, Peter was dead up until yesterday, and yet here they are now.

Stiles isn’t scared. There’s something about Peter’s presence that sets him at ease in a way that getting rid of him when he was still feral never did.

Peter rolls over and dares to drape an arm over Stiles’ waist. He’s careful with Stiles’ injuries, although Stiles doubts he’d feel much of anything at the moment. Peter did the pain-drain thing earlier.

An owl hoots outside. The trees whisper with the night breeze. Responsibilities will come knocking soon enough, but for now, it seems a whole other world away, distant and not their problem.

Stiles lets himself relax. Peter is warm, the bedding is comfortable, and Venom Ridge has always been a safe haven for him.

He curls into Peter and lets sleep take him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	28. Venom Ridge (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s swiftly becoming a permanent fixture in Stiles’ life and the weekend isn’t even over yet. Somehow, Stiles still can’t bring himself to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Preslash, Canon Divergence, Fluff, Comfort, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles

 

They stay another day and night at Venom Ridge before making their way back to civilization. Stiles doesn’t even blink when Peter crawls into bed with him the second night and immediately presses close. Considering he woke up half-sprawled on top of the werewolf just that morning with Peter’s arms wrapped around him, he figures it’s far too late to establish any personal boundaries now.

It should be weird. It doesn’t feel that way though.

They head back down early Monday morning. Stiles’ jeep is still where he parked it, which is a relief because he soon realizes that – in the fugue state he was in that night – he didn’t even lock the doors. Then again, nobody comes this far up this way, already halfway to Venom Ridge.

“Where will you stay?” Stiles asks as he drives them into town. “I mean, even if you go and steal the money now, it’s still gonna take a little time to pick out an apartment you like.”

Peter looks faintly displeased. Stiles did offer to let him to stay on the ridge. With everything Stiles has done to that place, a person could live up there indefinitely, with only the occasional trip down for food and supplies. But the werewolf insisted on returning with Stiles so here they are.

“Derek should be living on the Preserve again,” Peter divulges. “So I’ll stay at the subway station until I get a better place.”

Stiles frowns out the windshield. That… doesn’t sit well with him.

“People know where Derek was staying,” He points out. “Hunters could find you.”

“I won’t stay there long,” Peter assures before smirking. “Are you worried about me, Stiles?”

Stiles throws a glower at him. He shouldn’t be, is the thing. Peter is literally an ex-serial killer, and that ex- bit might still be up for debate depending on Peter’s future plans. Either way, you are not supposed to worry about an ex-serial killer, unless it’s worry over how to arrest him.

But it was justified. Maybe it wasn’t to anyone else, but to Stiles, all those kills were justified. If it was his dad locked up in a house and burned to death, Stiles would’ve done the exact same thing. It was wrong in the eyes of the law, it was wrong in Scott’s eyes and the Argents’ and possibly even Derek’s. It would certainly be wrong in the Sheriff’s eyes if the man knew.

But Stiles has never been particularly fussed about following the law. He’s been breaking it one way or another for almost as long as he can remember.

He wonders if that’s why he and Peter get along so well. Maybe something in each of them recognizes the other. Or maybe Stiles is just lonely and can’t help gravitating towards the first person who shows him any kind of genuine attention.

He gives himself a mental shake. None of that matters right now. He takes a left as buildings start popping up on either side. An idea begins forming in his head.

“This is not the way to the subway station, Stiles,” Peter remarks five minutes in.

Stiles snorts. “No shit. We’re not going to there. You’re not living in some rat-infested bolthole that even Derek couldn’t stand anymore. And don’t give me crap about you being a werewolf and infection-immune; I don’t give a damn.”

He babbles on through a few other choice comments about werewolves and their idiocy, mostly because it’s easier than facing the stare Peter is drilling into the side of his head, partly amused, mostly something else Stiles can’t decipher.

“We’re here,” He announces, pulling up in front of a house. It’s empty, with a For Sale sign out front, and the lawn’s a mess. That’s probably at least part of the reason nobody’s bought this place yet, even after all these years.

Peter follows him to the door, saying nothing even when Stiles pulls out a key and lets them in.

It’s dusty inside, which is no surprise. The remaining furniture consist of a couch in the living room and the dining table, both of which are covered with a white sheet.

“There’s no electricity or hot water here anymore,” Stiles informs the werewolf as they ascend the stairs. “But I can set you up with the same stuff I have at the ridge.”

Upstairs, there are three bedrooms, and Stiles stops at the last door on the right, pushing it open to reveal a sparsely filled room with only a mattress on the floor, a few books scattered here and there, a lantern, and a few other odds and ends.

“Adjoining bathroom,” Stiles points. “Plumbing still works.”

Peter hums a wordless acknowledgement as he wanders into the room, glancing around before drifting over to the mattress. It’s clean, despite the simplicity of it.

“This was…?” Peter glances back at Stiles.

Stiles crouches down and picks up a tin box, turning it over in his hands. “My old bedroom. My family’s old house. After my mom died, we - Dad and I - moved to a smaller place. Nobody’s lived here since but I still come back from time to time. Nowhere near as much as I go to the ridge but I do make a few trips here every year.”

He huffs, rapping his knuckles against the box. It’ll do. He removes the lid and dumps the contents out. Then he gets started on the runes that will turn the box into a microwave. He’ll need something a little bigger for a stove and oven.

He pauses when Peter’s hands appear in his line of sight, scooping up the box’s former contents. Stiles thinks about stopping him. Then he inwardly shrugs and returns to his task.

They’re just photographs. All the ones his dad didn’t manage to throw out, or the ones Stiles managed to fish back out of the trash behind the Sheriff’s back. All family photos from back when his mom was still full of laughter and life.

Peter doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even flip through them beyond a lingering glance at the photo on top, and then he shuffles them together into a neat pile before stacking them carefully next to the lantern.

Stiles’ shoulders relax a notch. He never realized he tensed up to begin with.

It takes him about two hours to get the makeshift microwave set up, as well as some heating runes for the shower and sink. He also rummages through some of the junk left behind in a closet until he surfaces with two sturdy - and big - enough boxes to turn into a stove and a fridge respectively.

“You still need clothes,” Stiles says as he stands from last rune he etched into the pseudo-fridge. Or at least he tries to. His knees give out before he’s even halfway up, and he would’ve fallen back on his ass if Peter wasn’t already there to catch him and ease him down onto the mattress instead.

“How about we worry about my clothes later,” Peter suggests sardonically. “Preferably after you recover your energy.”

“This doesn’t usually happen,” Stiles complains, but now that he thinks about it, he does feel a bit woozy.

“Cut yourself some slack,” Peter scoffs, though the hand on the back of Stiles’ neck tells a different story as black lines begin running up his arm. “You haven’t healed from your little get-together with Gerard yet, and then you went and crashed your jeep into a kanima. Through a wall. While you were still in it. Contrary to popular belief, teenagers do  _not_ live forever.”

Stiles scowls. It’s half-hearted at best because Peter cheats and doesn’t let up with the pain-drain assault until Stiles is literally drooping.

“Sleep,” Peter orders, manoeuvring him all the way onto the mattress, helpfully taking off both their shoes before wrangling a blanket over the two of them.

“Again?” Stiles grumbles, but his eyelids are already sliding shut, and he automatically curls further into Peter.

“I’m fairly certain you don’t sleep enough,” Peter murmurs, and that’s the last thing Stiles hears before slumber drags him under.

 

* * *

 

Stiles only stirs when Peter shakes him awake, and even then, it’s a slow rise to full consciousness.

“Your father texted you,” Peter tells him one Stiles is blinking at him with bleary eyes. “Asked about dinner tonight.”

“Oh,” Stiles scrubs a loose fist over one eye before smooshing his face back into Peter’s chest from where he’s starfished on top of the werewolf again. “Text back… something healthy. With a huge side of something even healthier.”

He yawns while Peter goes and types out the dictated message.

“How long have I been asleep?” Stiles mumbles, rolling over until he’s flat on his back next to Peter instead.

“Long enough for me to look up a few apartment complexes I like,” Peter waves Stiles’ phone. “I’ve narrowed it down to four. Which one do you prefer?”

Stiles wrinkles his nose in confusion but obligingly takes his phone and scrolls through the information of the four apartments Peter picked out. “Does it matter? It’s gonna be  _your_  home.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Stiles,” Peter lets his head fall back on the pillow, slinging an arm over his eyes. “You’ll have a room there, obviously.”

Stiles lowers his phone, stunned and staring up at the ceiling instead. “…Dude, there is  _nothing_  obvious about that.”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“Everybody’s a dude these days, old man. Don’t change the damn subject.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter heaves a sigh like Stiles is being difficult on purpose, but when he lifts his arm to meet Stiles’ gaze, there’s something unmistakeably tight around his eyes. Almost anxious. “I have a place in your den, yes? So it’s only fair you have one in mine.”

“…Oh,” Stiles gnaws on his lower lip and then wriggles onto his side - away from Peter - to hide the pleased flush rising in his face. “Don’t call my tent a den. Only one of us is half animal here and it’s not me.”

He can sense Peter’s smile without even looking. Christ. What is he doing? Pre-resurrection, their last interaction involved Stiles throwing a Molotov cocktail at Peter; post-resurrection, they’re sharing a bed and picking out an apartment together. Any way you look at it, this is not normal.

Then again, normality left on an indefinite vacation the moment bodies started popping up in good old Beacon Hills. Still, Stiles is pretty sure this- this  _thing_  with Peter is even weirder than all the death-defying bulllshit put together, and that’s really saying something.

A hand presses between his shoulder blades, and the warmth of it seeps through his shirt and into his skin like a brand. His thoughts stop racing into overdrive.

“…This one,” Stiles rolls over again, studiously avoiding Peter’s searching gaze as he tilts the screen of his phone at the werewolf. “This one looks nice. It’s downtown but not smack in the middle of it, it’s got a fire escape we can climb down if we need to run, and the police don’t patrol down this street very often when they do their rounds in this part of town. Also, the landlord owes me a favour which could come in handy if we need him to look the other way when we inevitably bring our work home with us. So to speak.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. Stiles shrugs, finally meeting the older man’s eyes. “I found his daughter. Didn’t even do it on purpose. She went missing for five days, and I found her crying in the woods with a broken leg when I was coming down from the ridge. Smart girl though, or maybe just really lucky; she found some berries and was eating those over the past few days so she didn’t starve, and the infection to her leg injury wasn’t even that bad yet. Anyway, I got her down, and her dad was grateful, like, tearful, profusely thankful, if-there’s-anything-I-can-do-for-you-just-name-it kind of grateful, and he’s sent me Christmas cards ever since. And you know, who am I to turn that down when it’s offered to me, right? It’s not like I’m holding it over his head or anything.”

Peter’s lips pull into a faint smirk. “I’m hardly one to disapprove, Stiles.” He glances at the phone. “I’ll look into it once I divest Derek of half the family money. Shall I drop your name to the landlord when I look into it? Or keep it for a rainy day surprise?”

“Give him my name,” Stiles stretches languidly, ribs protesting only mildly at the action. “And you can look into it tomorrow. He already has my number so you can give him that too as proof that you know me. He’ll know you’re good for it, and he’ll let you pay the deposit later.”

Peter makes an agreeable noise, hands Stiles back his phone, and then levers himself upright. “Then I suppose I should buy myself some groceries for now.” A grimace of annoyance flickers across his face. “I’ll pay you back, Stiles.”

“Nah,” Stiles waves a hand, hauling himself up as well. “It’s fine; I can afford it.”

Okay, that’s not completely true. And Peter side-eyes him like he knows it.

“I’ll pay for your jeep’s repairs,” The werewolf finally compromises, and  _that_ , Stiles can’t possibly refuse.

“Where did you get your other clothes anyway?” Stiles asks as they toe on their shoes and get ready to leave. “The ones you were wearing before?”

Peter’s lips thin. “I used my nurse’s money. I didn’t buy that much though. The kanima clawed up the last set.”

Stiles gives Peter’s current outfit an up-down sweep. “I could lend you a few more shirts and some pants? If you don’t mind plaid too much.”

“I’ll survive,” Peter deadpans, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Let’s go then. I gotta get back by six-thirty at the latest to get dinner on the table before my dad gets home.”

Peter’s eyebrows twitch into a frown for a second before they smooth out again, leaving Stiles wondering if he saw it at all.

“Peter?”

Peter shakes his head and motions at the door. “Lead the way.”

They’re in Stiles’ jeep again when Stiles remembers to ask. “Do you need help handling Derek when you go and… get your money?”

Peter snorts as he buckles his seatbelt. “The day I need help handling  _Derek_  - Alpha or otherwise - will be a shameful one indeed. No, I’ll take care of it myself.”

Stiles just sighs as he starts the car. “In case your jaunt into the afterlife brought about a case of short-term amnesia, let me just remind you that your nephew already ripped your throat out once. I’d really rather not see a repeat performance. Now that you’re sane and all. San _er_. And I doubt you have a second get-out-of-death-free card if you croak again. Also, then I might have to kill Derek for it, and can you imagine  _that_  hassle?”

He goes to pull away from the curb, only to freeze when Peter reaches out and runs a hand over his head before palming the back of his neck, squeezing gently and then guiding Stiles towards him until their noses are less than an inch apart.

Peter’s eyes are very, very blue, vivid in their intensity.

The werewolf leans his head to the side at the last second, and their cheeks end up gliding together, skin to skin with an intimacy that shouldn’t feel half as natural as it does.

Peter makes a rough sound at the back of his throat, something low and desperate and  _pained_ but in the best ways because - when Stiles leans tentatively into him in return - the werewolf’s other hand snakes out to clutch at Stiles’ hip, and his entire frame goes slack, slumping into Stiles like all his strings have been cut.

They scent each other and breathe each other in for a long while. Time blurs around them, and by the time they regain some semblance of sense, Stiles is absently stroking a hand up and down Peter’s back in soothing circles, chin hooked over one of the werewolf’s shoulders, and Peter’s bruising grip has eased, though he hasn’t let go either. He still has his face shoved into the arch of Stiles’ throat, and he keeps taking deep, full-chested whiffs every sixth inhale or so of whatever scents are clinging to Stiles.

Stiles clears his throat when they finally untangle themselves from each other. Peter blinks at him, slow and lazy like he’s half-drunk, and his left hand lingers at the nape of Stiles’ neck.

Stiles means to ask  _where did that come from_ , or something along those lines, maybe even just a general  _what the hell Peter??_ , but what comes out instead is a lost-sounding, “What are we doing?”

He shivers when Peter brushes a thumb up and down over the knobs of his spine at the back of his neck, but he doesn’t pull away even though he thinks he should. Thinks he should be scared right now.

“I think you know the word for it,” Peter eventually replies, his voice reduced to a velvety rasp of a thing. “Or at least you have some idea.”

Stiles glances away. He thinks about that spark of…  _something_  back in the hospital when they first met, a moment suspended with more than just fear. He thinks of the slight disconnect he felt when Peter was dead.

He thinks about how easily everything slid into place up on Venom Ridge from the moment he tripped over Peter outside his tent, about the physical contact he’s normally not too comfortable with even during the rare occasions they come from his dad or Scott, about the nightmares that have been nonexistent since Peter started sleeping next to him.

About shared meals and old family homes and  _Peter_.

And it’s too much. Much too much. The niggling idea he has of the sheer  _immensity_  of something like this happening to _him_ is- And he can’t-

“I can’t-” He chokes out, and Peter’s grip on his neck tightens briefly before he finally draws away entirely.

“Stiles,” Peter waits until Stiles looks up. He smiles, already more put-together, but the curve of his mouth is soft. “It’s fine. There’s no rush. Take your time. Do some research. And remember - it’s your choice. Always. Okay?”

Stiles nods, still feeling a little shaky, but air also rushes back into his lungs when seconds ago it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He puts his hands on the steering wheel just to give them something to hold on to.

“You-” He starts, stops, and - for once - struggles for the right words, for any words.

“You’re young,” Peter interjects. “And, I can wait.”

Stiles nods again. This time, as he pulls away from the curb, his hands are steady.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	29. Venom Ridge (Pt.3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> According to society’s relationship norms, they’ve definitely skipped a few dozen steps. But then, neither of them has ever been normal to begin with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Fluff, Comfort, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles

 

Stiles helps Peter move into his new place three days later. There isn’t much of anything inside yet but Stiles already likes the apartment on account of the spacious wooden walls and flooring in earthy tones, the wide windows that let sunlight stream through, and the wraparound porch outside due to Peter managing to secure a corner unit for them. It’s on the third floor, and it’s actually a lot bigger than Stiles imagined it would be even after seeing some of the photos online.

There are two bathrooms, a kitchen Stiles would love to cook in, a space for doing the laundry, a sitting room that opens out onto the porch, a small study, and two bedrooms.

Stiles excitedly flails his way through every room, and then he pulls up short and flushes red when an amused Peter stops him long enough to press a key into his hand and curl his fingers around it.

Being told he would have a place in Peter’s home and being given tangible proof to it are apparently two different things.

They start moving boxes in from the jeep. It’s mostly books that Peter squirreled away before the fire, old texts that he never allowed his family to touch because he worked hard to get his hands on them, and if he handed them over, Talia always insisted on checking them over and either confiscating them if she thought they weren’t suitable for the pack - Peter included - or sticking them in the Hale library for the family to share.

Peter has never subscribed to the whole ‘sharing is caring’ adage.

Aside from books, there are also a few personal paraphernalia that Peter’s managed to gather back together, most of them blackened or singed in some way. Stiles finds an old basketball at the bottom of one box, the surface cracked and faded, and he very carefully puts it back before placing the whole thing in a corner of the master bedroom. After that, when Peter leaves to finish up the last of the paperwork for the apartment, Stiles also finds a crumpled handful of childish drawings, a squashed chain of paper cranes, a sooty album full of pressed flowers, a tattered Halloween wolf costume, and an old lone photograph of what has to be the entirety of the former Hale Pack, and he tucks them - ripped cloth and charred corners and all - into the same box as the basketball.

Memories can be bittersweet things. He wonders if that’s why Peter - who had no problems alphabetizing all his books onto the study’s bookshelves - left those particular boxes for Stiles to unpack, not yet able to look at them again beyond the initial treasure-hunting in the ruins of the dilapidated Hale house.

 

* * *

 

Another two and a half weeks, and Peter turns up outside Stiles’ bedroom window, smug, triumphant, and suddenly several million dollars richer.

“Derek was too busy moving into his new loft to notice,” Peter explains airily as he lounges back on Stiles’ bed. “And I doubt he’ll even realize for a while. All he spends his money on is takeout and junk food for the Lahey boy. If the kid wasn’t a werewolf, he’d be dead from malnutrition. My nephew really could use a few refresher lessons on providing the proper amount of care for his pack but it’s not my problem anymore, and he wouldn’t listen anyway. I had to manipulate Isaac to get Derek to find an actual habitable house to live in.”

“What happens when Derek  _does_  find out?” Stiles enquires. “I mean he’ll probably guess that it was you, right? Especially since you’re the only other person entitled to a chunk of the insurance money, and you lawyered your way through that.”

“Oh I left a note in the vault,” Peter smirks. “And the bank has my name on record. I’m officially not missing anymore; everything that needs to be airtight is airtight, and Derek has no right to take back any of the money I took from him.”

He grins this time, an expression that holds less mirth and far more bite. “And I didn’t even have to draw any blood.”

Stiles snorts, spinning idly in the desk chair he’s straddling, chin resting on the back of it. “He’s gonna come knocking on your door, and then he’s gonna punch you through a wall.”

“Only if he finds it, and he’s never been all that good at tracking me.”

“Maybe not, but it’s still possible,” He’s silent for a moment. “…Want me to set up some wards around your place? Like, no-invite-no-entree type of wards?”

Peter stills, blue eyes slanting over to where Stiles is sitting. “I did sense wards up on Venom Ridge but I got through anyway when I followed you.”

Stiles shrugs. “The wards I put up there were more general and based on intention, like if anyone wanting to hurt me tried to follow me up there, or if they tried to attack me along the way, the plants would fight back.”

He smiles, a twist of a thing that feels unfamiliar on his face, if only because he doesn’t usually show this much of himself to other people.

But then, Peter’s not just other people. He never really has been. Not to Stiles. And it’s apparent in the way Peter doesn’t even look surprised. All he does is tilt his head and smile back almost hungrily, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“I planted some wolfsbane and rowan trees up there too, just in case,” Stiles confesses, and Peter laughs outright like it’s the best joke in the world, eyes crinkling, head tipping back, his throat a beautiful stretch of tanned, unprotected skin.

Stiles tears his eyes away and gives himself a mental smack.

He’s done some research. Nowhere near enough, but he’s been busy, with schoolwork, with the move, with researching the Alpha Pack that Peter’s told him about.

With Peter himself. And Stiles can’t exactly research what’s between them when he’s hanging out at Peter’s apartment. Well he could, but- just no.

“Wards would be much appreciated then,” Peter is saying, and when Stiles looks over at him again, the werewolf has his head propped up on one loose fist, elbow balanced on his thigh, and the smile that plays on his lips now lurks on the edge of wicked.

Damn perverted wolf.

Stiles scowls and pointedly ignores the electric undercurrent curling between them.

“I’ll see what I can do when I swing by tomorrow after school,” Stiles promises, clearing his throat when his voice comes out hoarser than he expected it to.

Peter’s smile widens. “Excellent. Thank you, Stiles. And of course, you can stay for dinner. You’re always welcome, and I do so love having you.”

Stiles’ eyebrows twitch, and he comes close to banging his head against the surface of his desk. Honestly, he deserves a goddamn sainthood for putting up with this creep.

 

* * *

 

The first time Stiles sleeps over at Peter’s place, in the room that’s  _his room_ , he ends up dozing restlessly on and off until he hears a noise at his door, and when he lifts his head, he finds Peter loitering in the shadows of the doorway with a pillow clutched to his stomach and watching him like some majorly creepy stalker.

Stiles’ reaction to this - a mere roll of his eyes and an exasperated huff as he drops his head back onto his pillow - probably leaves a lot to be desired by your average human being.

He flicks a hand in the air. “Get over here, creeperwolf.”

It takes several seconds for Peter to slink over to his bed, like he thinks he still needs permission to approach, but when Stiles flips back the covers in a clear invitation, the werewolf climbs in without any further prompting, tucking the pillow under his own head before snuggling aggressively into Stiles’ back.

Stiles snorts even as one of his hands find Peter’s to tangle their fingers together over Stiles’ stomach. “You better not have been creeping outside my window whenever I slept in my own bed.”

Peter hums suspiciously, nosing the back of Stiles’ neck. “Well, I wouldn’t say  _whenever_.”

Stiles heaves a sigh. How is this his life?

“I think we’re doing this all backwards,” He remarks quietly after a long moment of peaceful silence.

“Because society says so?” Peter scoffs, arms tightening around Stiles’ waist. “We can do this in whatever order we want. And society can mind its own business.”

“It has the bad habit of doing the exact opposite,” Stiles mutters dryly.

He feels the smirk that Peter presses into his skin. “It does usually seem to need some convincing first, doesn’t it? Fortunately for us, persuasion is a skill we both possess in spades.”

Stiles hides a smile in his pillow. He supposes they do.

A calm hush falls over them for a while. There’s something soothing about feeling the rise and fall of Peter’s chest at his back. He skims a thumb over the man’s knuckles. “It’s a Saturday tomorrow; you wanna come up to Venom Ridge with me?”

Peter gives his hand a brief squeeze. “I’d be delighted to.”

They fall asleep like that, wrapped up in each other, and Stiles doesn’t stir until morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	30. Venom Ridge (Pt.4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They aren’t them without a plan or two in the wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Fluff, Comfort, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles

 

They head up to Venom Ridge in the morning. Stiles doesn’t take his jeep this time; he doesn’t usually, so it’s a peaceful near-two-hour hike for them in the chilly light of daybreak.

They each bring a satchel of food with them. There’s a small supermarket downtown that opens early, and the owners have been seeing Stiles come in on Saturdays for fresh produce and meat for years – not to mention the same thing on Wednesdays when Stiles needs to buy groceries for the house – so they always set aside the best for him, wrapped up and ready to go by the time he gets there.

(They’re visibly surprised today when he arrives with Peter in tow. He’s never come in with company before, and it’s a good thing Mrs. Kelly isn’t one for gossip even if she does hear quite a bit about what goes on in Beacon Hills because she looks at Stiles and she looks at Peter and she gets this mad twinkle in her eyes instead of calling the police like any other law-abiding citizen would probably do if they saw a teenager walking around with an adult like Peter hovering at his side. But Mrs. Kelly also knows Stiles, and Stiles likes to think she’s aware of how much overbearing adult supervision he  _doesn’t_ need.)

They make it to Venom Ridge shortly before nine. Poison oak and stinging nettles part for him, and it’s still cool even after having seen it multiple times before. Nature is alive of course but it’s another matter entirely when they’re sentient with a touch of Stiles’ magic in them, and they welcome him and Peter with only a moment of suspicious leaf-shaking when Peter passes by.

It doesn’t take long to get all the food put away, and then Stiles is delegated to lazing around in bed while Peter cooks breakfast for them.

Lying on his stomach, Stiles taps away at his laptop, screen carefully angled away from Peter. He has a few tabs open, all of them obscure websites on… well, what he and Peter apparently are. Something rare even amongst werewolves. A combination of luck and matching personalities and the universe’s own mysterious workings. An instant connection bound by fate and circumstance.

He peers at Peter over the top of his laptop. The man’s in sweats and a v-neck, barefoot and soft around the edges like he never was when he was on a killing spree, never is even now when he’s with Derek or when they’re in public.

Stiles is struck by the sudden desire to bundle the werewolf up somewhere and never let anyone turn him into shattered glass and burnt-out shell and out-of-control madness ever again, and that’s just-

He smooshes his face against the bedding, rubbing his forehead against the blankets.

Stupid.

His scent must change in some way because – when he lifts his head again – Peter’s gaze has slanted over to Stiles, something puzzled lurking around the half-smile on his face.

Stiles stomps down on his embarrassment and claps his laptop shut instead. “Is breakfast ready? I’m a growing boy, you know. I need food.”

Peter rolls his eyes and turns back to the makeshift stove where omelettes are being fried. “Right away, Your Majesty.”

Stiles grins and goes to grab some cutlery.

 

* * *

 

They end up spending the rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon researching and discussing the Alpha Pack. Peter tells him about Ennis and Deucalion and the latter’s past with Gerard in Beacon Hills. Stiles can see why that would make him an angry douche. Stiles also doesn’t give a damn, not when the bastard’s come back now and is more than likely up to no good.

There’s something, Stiles thinks, that Peter isn’t telling him. About Deucalion maybe, or Ennis, and Peter knows he knows it and hedges around it anyway so Stiles leaves it alone even if he is curious. If Peter’s not revealing the information to him, then whatever it is can’t be all that important in the here and now. The werewolf can always tell him later.

Neither of them knows who else makes up the rest of the Alpha Pack, but they agree that it’s a very likely possibility that Boyd and Erica have been abducted by them.

“Are they your friends?” Peter enquires, frowning in recollection. “I don’t recall seeing you spend any time with either of them.”

Stiles snorts. Loudly. “One of the first things Erica did after she became a werewolf was give me a concussion and leave me unconscious in a dumpster, all because she had a crush on me and I never reciprocated. Also, lots of bully-victim issues in that one. In Isaac too.”

He pauses, appreciating the near inaudible growl that rumbles deep in Peter’s chest.

“And Boyd said himself that we’re not friends, and that’s true enough. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t-” Stiles shrugs. “-really care about him. But most people don’t like me, and I don’t really care about most people, so there’s nothing new there. I know Derek wanted him for a Second though. Now he’s down to an attack dog who’d rather trail around after Scotty than play Pack with him. His prospects aren’t looking so good, that’s for sure.”

Peter’s mouth twists in distaste. “Derek was never meant to be Alpha. Clearly, he hasn’t been able to instill much self-control  _or_  loyalty in any of the self-esteem-deprived adolescents he chose.”

He leans forward, elbows resting on crossed legs, and he studies the map of Beacon Hills spread out between them again. “Well, Derek and his pack are none of my concern but we can’t ignore them entirely since they  _are_  part of the problem. So are Scott and the Argent girl for that matter, and I suppose you want to keep an eye on them?”

Stiles sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s my- It’s what I do, okay? Look out for Scott. I’ve been doing that since I kicked sand in Jackson’s face after that asshole shoved Scott into the sandbox at recess back in kindergarten. He’s my best friend.”

“Sometimes, I wonder if you say that because it’s true or because it’s become habit,” Peter comments, though he avoids the sharp, stiff look Stiles shoots him in favour of circling the town with the tip of his pen.

“I think we should prioritize figuring out where the Alpha Pack is hiding,” He continues. “If we find and even save Derek’s Betas along the way, maybe we can wring some gratitude out of my emotionally stunted nephew, although I wouldn’t hold my breath. They could be hiding in the forests of course, but to avoid having their scents picked up, they’d have to hide pretty deep, and that wouldn’t be very conducive to the scare tactics they’ve been using. They need food too, to keep themselves and their prisoners alive. I’d say it’s more likely that they’re hiding in town, the people and pollution and everything else cover their scents more efficiently, but that begs the question of how they’re hiding their hostages. It takes a lot to truss up a werewolf  _and_  keep them silent, and most of those methods can’t be used by other werewolves.”

Stiles mulls all this over, examining the map himself before crossing out the warehouse district. “You said that’s where Derek moved, right? Even if some of those are abandoned, the Alpha Pack wouldn’t risk setting up shop so close to their enemies.”

“I think ‘enemies’ gives Derek’s capabilities more credit than they deserve,” Peter mutters caustically, but he also nods in agreement, and Stiles has to huff a breath of laughter at the disparaging remark.

“We  _should_  concentrate on abandoned buildings though,” Peter decides, eyeing the map thoughtfully before crossing out the majority of the busiest parts of downtown, along with all the residential areas. He frowns and shakes his head. “But I still don’t understand how they could have two werewolves tucked away so completely.”

“Maybe they’re working with someone who  _can_  handle mountain ash,” Stiles suggests.

“Then that someone would need to be on hand twenty-four/seven,” Peter sits back. “At the very least, they’d need to break the circle and reapply it every time they feed the hostages.”

He thinks for a moment before scoffing. “Or they could already be dead. I doubt Derek would’ve felt the difference if his two Betas could walk away so easily, and Derek could  _let_  them walk away just as easily.”

“If they’re already dead, Scott and Derek aren’t gonna have anything to reconcile over, not after Derek went around threatening Scott and lying to him about the whole kill-the-Alpha-that-Bit-you-and-you’ll-become-human-again-but-oops-I-killed-him-first issue, and of course Scott betraying Derek to Gerard and  _still_ thinking he’s done the right thing is hardly good for relations. Beacon Hills is either gonna blow up with the size of their egos or end up with at least one more dead body,” Stiles snorts. “So let’s think positive and assume that Boyd and Erica  _aren’t_  dead. Aside from mountain ash, and I know about electricity too, what else can stop a werewolf?”

“Electricity is mainly a hunter’s weapon,” Peter reveals. “And Deucalion would never work with hunters even if a hunter would stoop to working with him so I doubt it’s that. Druids have their own methods of trapping a werewolf, but if the Alpha Pack has one of those working for them, then it could be anything.”

“Probably not that though,” Stiles points out. “I don’t see why a druid would work for them, not when every single one of those Alphas had to kill their own packs – including their emissaries – to join Deucalion’s.”

Peter hums, nodding slowly. “Well there is one other thing. Hecatolite. More commonly known as moonstone. It scatters moonlight, and if the walls of whatever room Boyd and Erica are in contain it, then they won’t be able to feel the effects of the full moon. Combined with mountain ash, it’s the perfect cage for a werewolf.”

“And it lines up with what Deucalion has all his members do,” Stiles straightens, mind racing. “We don’t know what he’s doing here; I doubt it’s really to ‘test’ Derek’s Pack the way the rumours about the Alpha Pack say. But what if he wants another Alpha in his little collection? What if he wants Derek to join? And Derek would have to kill his own packmates to do it, right? So by capturing Boyd and Erica and driving them crazy from lack of moonlight, Derek would be forced to kill his Betas-”

“-which makes Isaac their next target,” Peter finishes, frowning in consternation. “But why would  _anyone_  want  _Derek_  in a pack of Alphas? As dismal an Alpha as my nephew makes, he would never willingly kill his own Pack. There has to be dozens of other Alphas out there that would fit Deucalion’s criteria a lot better.”

They both fall silent for a while after that. Stiles begins circling all the abandoned properties in town that would fit an entire pack. There aren’t actually that many, less than a dozen in total.

“I’ll pull the blueprints for all of these,” Stiles says, jabbing his pen at the map.

Peter’s eyebrows rise. “You can do that?”

Stiles nods absently. “They should be in the station’s archives, and I made copies of all of Dad’s key cards and keys years ago. Also, I know all the blind spots in the station’s security feed, I can hack it just in case, the security guard goes by every fifteen minutes, bored out of his mind, and any record of using the cards will just show up with my dad’s signature. In and out, piece of cake.”

Peter doesn’t respond right away so Stiles glances up. The werewolf is staring unblinkingly at him, blue eyes bright with delight.

“I really should stop being surprised by the things you get up to, Stiles,” Peter muses. “Next you’ll be telling me you have the entire police force wrapped around your finger.”

“Well, they do have strict orders from me to help watch my dad’s diet,” Stiles smiles a little dryly. “And Janine at the front desk takes all my school-related calls and never tells my dad whenever I skive off classes for the day.”

Peter chuckles, tossing his pen down and reaching for Stiles. Stiles lets himself fall easily into the werewolf’s side, discarding his own pen, kicking away the map, and burrowing deeper into Peter’s natural warmth as they topple backwards onto the nest of blankets.

“While you’re doing that, I suppose I can work on Derek,” Peter murmurs, carding fingers through Stiles’ hair. “He needs to shape up and act soon, pull an  _actual_  pack together, or he’s going to end up standing with a pile of corpses at his feet.  _Again_. And this time…”

The arm around Stiles’ waist tightens, like the man is already thinking about Stiles’ head cracked open or his belly split apart on an Alpha’s claws, and Stiles glances up in time to see the werewolf’s eyes go distant and cold. He presses his lips together, and then he wriggles his way around until he’s sprawled out on top of Peter, starfish style.

Peter blinks up at him, life flooding back into his face.

Stiles offers a fierce smile and kneads his chin into Peter’s chest for a moment. “You think too much. Forget Derek. You and me, we’re gonna run the Alpha Pack outta town or rip them to shreds before they can lay a claw on either of us. Either way, they’ll regret coming to Beacon Hills. We’ll make sure of it. Right?”

Peter stares. And then he smirks, hands curling possessively at Stiles’ hips. “Obviously.” He leans in and nuzzles the skin under Stiles’ jaw. “‘You and me’ – I like the sound of that.”

Stiles bites his lip. “Probably… It’s probably something you should get used to then.”

Peter meets his eyes. “Yeah?”

Stiles nods, and maybe he  _is_ flying a little blind here, maybe he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing or where he’s going with this or how it’ll end. But who needs to know that when they’re just beginning? Because the one thing he does know is that he wants to do it all with Peter, and for now, that’s more than enough.

“Yeah.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	31. Venom Ridge (Pt.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles was born wrong, he knows. But Peter was too, and it's as much of a relief as it is terrifying to find someone who understands. Stiles is okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Fluff, Comfort, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles, Dark Peter, Neglect, Child Neglect

 

School lets out. Summer break begins. Stiles spends an increasing amount of time with Peter.

Nobody notices. Stiles thinks it’s hilarious, the few times he actually thinks about it. He’s doing nothing in particular to hide the fact that he’s either regularly visiting the apartment of a thirty-two-year-old man or regularly inviting that same man out into the middle of the woods with him, and  _nobody notices._  It’s  _hilarious_. Stiles doesn’t understand why Peter doesn’t get the joke. He knows the werewolf is very happy to have Stiles to himself – something Stiles tries not to think about because nobody ever really wants to have Stiles to themselves, not for long, not before Peter, and he doesn’t know how to handle that yet – but Peter doesn’t laugh about it the way Stiles does. In fact, he looks pretty  _un_ amused by it.

Ah well. Stiles’ sense of humour is simply too sophisticated for the mundane. That, at least, Peter rolls his eyes at.

Of course, Stiles can’t drop off the map entirely. Between pouring through the blueprints he lifted from the station and making sure his father continues eating well even if their relationship is more strained than ever these days, Scott finally texts him to hang out, mostly – Stiles suspects – because Allison’s gone for the summer, vacationing in France with her dad and probably using the time to put her head back on straight without the distraction of a stalker ex-boyfriend.

Stiles agrees to meet up. He’s missed Scott, though much less than he did back when Peter was on a rampage and then mostly dead, and Scott was too busy making out with Allison, running around after Allison, moping for Allison, and conspiring with Gerard behind everyone’s backs.

He doesn’t expect Isaac to be there when he gets to Scott’s house. There has always been a wall of… not quite downright _dislike_ but close enough to it between them, and Scott is as oblivious to it as usual even though Isaac smirks and lifts his chin with something like defiance and something like fear, and Stiles smiles back and thinks about strangling the little rat with his own scarf.

He wonders if Isaac can smell the violence on him the same way Jackson could always sense it even back when the douche was human and thus never dared to do more than give Stiles his daily sneer and insult.

Still, for Scott’s sake, he’ll be civil. Mostly civil. Somewhat civil. He won’t even mention Isaac’s dad and past trauma. That’s practically saintly for Stiles, especially when the first thing both werewolves do is sniff at him, and Scott – with a wrinkled nose – demands, “Why do you smell weird?”

It’s a good thing Scott and Isaac are still so new to the whole werewolf gig, not to mention they haven’t spent a whole lot of time around Peter, or they’d identify that ‘weird’ smell as  _StilesandPeter_.

Stiles won’t deny it if they figure it out. If they – or Derek – put a single claw on Peter, Stiles will rip them a new one himself. They haven’t cared all this time about where he’s been or what he’s been up to; it’s  _galling_  for them to try and interfere now.

He shrugs and fends Scott off when the guy tries to invade his personal space to sniff at him some more. “Cologne? Or just random smells mixed together? I dunno, dude, but back off. Invasion of privacy here.”

Scott reluctantly backs off, and Isaac doesn’t look like he cares. They both let the issue go, which Stiles expected. Scott, at least, has a short attention span when it comes to anything that isn’t his love life or a – literally – deadly serious matter.

They end up in the living room playing video games and surrounded by junk food. As a rule, Stiles doesn’t approve of junk food. He likes it well enough in small portions now and then but curly fries are pretty much the only type of unhealthy fast food he eats in excess because they are the food of the gods and nobody can convince him otherwise.

So he doesn’t snack on too much chips and popcorn, and Scott is used to that so he doesn’t even blink when Stiles shoves most of his share over for the resident werewolves to gorge themselves on. Now that health problems are no longer a concern, Scott is more than willing to make up for sixteen years of asthma and human limitations.

Isaac on the other hand grimaces his way through the chips, and Stiles is observant enough to notice. The idiot really needs to learn how to cook. Derek can barely take care of himself on a good day – in some ways, he can’t even do that much – and asking him to take care of a minor on top of that is pathetically laughable.

It isn’t Stiles’ responsibility to nag about it though so he doesn’t say anything. Besides, he’s pretty sure Scott has Isaac staying over for dinner sometimes, maybe even overnight, and Melissa would definitely put more variety in her meals.

Inevitably, their chatter – partly snarky, partly stilted, mostly friendly – turns to the topic of Allison.

The spontaneous look of sheer exasperation shared over Scott’s head is undoubtedly the first and only mutually agreeable exchange that Stiles has ever had with Isaac.

“She hasn’t replied to any of my texts,” Scott tells them sullenly.

“Scott, old buddy, old pal,” Stiles pats him on the shoulder and tries not to sound too sarcastic. “You did agree to give her some space.”

“I  _have_ ,” Scott huffs. “Ever since that night with Jackson and Gerard. It’s been almost  _four_   _months!”_

“To be fair, you were giving her moon eyes in school every day,” Isaac points out. “And you were spying on her through her bedroom window at night at least once a week, to the point where she caught you at it and didn’t even try to stop her dad from threatening to shoot you to chase you away. I’m pretty sure that’s not giving her space.”

Scott at least has the decency to look faintly sheepish. “I can’t help it; I  _love_  her!”

“That’s not love, Scotty,” Stiles snorts. “That’s a criminal offense.”

Isaac makes a low noise at the back of his throat, one that sounds suspiciously like a snigger.

If anything, Scott just looks even more depressed. Stiles heaves a sigh. “Look, when she comes back, maybe you two can work things out. But harassing her in the meantime isn’t gonna help your case.”

Scott perks up. Stiles has a feeling that the only thing his best friend took away from that was the first sentence.

“So what else has been going on with you guys?” Stiles asks, eager to turn the conversation topic away from Allison. It stings that he has to ask something like that at all though. There was a time when he never would’ve had to.

“Oh, well,” This time, it’s Scott who exchanges a shifty-eyed glance with Isaac before they both look back at Stiles. “We’ve been- working on tracking and stuff, you know? Not really anything special.”

Stiles can read between the lines. “So… you’ve been looking for Boyd and Erica.”

Scott winces guiltily but immediately sits up straighter. “Look, Stiles, I know you want to help but it’s too dangerous for you. Isaac and I are working on it so you can’t go investigating again, alright? You’re only human, and if the Alpha Pack gets their hands on you-”

“Okay,” Stiles cuts him off. Something burns hot and ugly in his gut, and maybe it shows because Isaac averts his eyes and Scott falters even though he still looks insistent.

“I- Stiles, I mean it, you can’t go looking for them on your own-”

And Stiles wants to snarl at him, tell him that he has no say in what Stiles can or can’t do, but that will just kick off an even bigger argument, and all he wants right now is for Scott to  _shut up_.

He doesn’t care if Scott wants to go off with Isaac to search for missing teenagers on their own. Stiles is searching for the Alpha Pack with Peter and they aren’t telling anyone either. Fair’s fair. What Stiles  _does_ care about is the bullshit Scott is spewing, about how Stiles is  _human_ , about how he isn’t  _capable_ , about how isn’t  _enough_ , even after everything he’s done.

“You two can do your thing, Scott, I won’t stop you,” Stiles shrugs with feigned nonchalance and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll do what I do best.”

Scott frowns because that isn’t agreement. “Stiles, don’t be stupid; you can’t handle an Alpha werewolf by yourself, and we’re talking about a  _pack_  of Alphas here. Just… stay out of the way and keep your head down-”

And apparently, Stiles can’t let this go after all. The controller drops from his hands to the floor with a clatter. “And I should just… do what you say?”

Scott bristles, and his eyes flash gold with frustration. “ _Yes_ , because I know what I’m doing-”

“Scott, you never know what you’re doing.”

“I’m the one who has a chance of tracking Boyd and Erica down, and Isaac’s helping me!”

“And I have my own ways of finding people, you  _know_  that-”

“Just stay out of it!” Scott explodes, looking ready to leap to his feet, and his eyes stay supernatural gold this time. “You’ll just get in the way and get hurt and I don’t want to have to worry about you too!”

A deafening silence follows. Isaac stares between them, wide-eyed with alarm.

Stiles draws a deliberate, fortifying breath, and then he climbs to his feet, movements as carefully restrained as possible. He looks squarely at Scott, at the angry flush in his cheeks and the agitated clench of his fists.

“You  _don’t_  worry about me,” Stiles says, quiet and measured, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds like it’s coming from a long distance away, and his lungs don’t feel like they’re getting enough air. “If you did, I wouldn’t have had to hold Derek up in a swimming pool for two hours while you took your time with dessert at your girlfriend’s house. If you did, you would’ve at least  _asked_  what happened to me after I disappeared from that lacrosse game. I didn’t even need you to look for me; I would’ve been happy if you’d just-”

He reaches for his sweater. He doesn’t take his eyes off Scott but he thinks he really needs to get out of here, right now.

“Fortunately,” He bites out. “I don’t need anyone to worry about me. I can take care of myself just fine. So like I said, you do your thing and I’ll do mine and we’ll stay out of each other’s way since you don’t seem to want me onboard.”

He turns to leave. Scott goes through with leaping to his feet. “I’ll tell the Sheriff!”

Stiles stops. And then he turns back, and the look he pins Scott with – a wild sort of fury that tears at his chest and throat and hands with a singularly savage desire to destroy everything within its reach– makes  _Isaac_  recoil. Scott cringes, and Stiles knows he won’t have to say another word.

He sees himself out and doesn’t look back.

 

* * *

 

He goes straight to Peter. He doesn’t even remember driving to the older man’s apartment but he’s suddenly there at the familiar door, and it’s opening before Stiles even knocks.

Peter takes one look at him, his nose flaring, and a muscle jumps in his jaw, and then he’s pulling Stiles inside and sitting him down on the couch.

He doesn’t crowd into Stiles or do anything except take a seat next to him, seemingly knowing instinctively that Stiles doesn’t want to be touched right now, that he’s one wrong word away from lashing out.

He doesn’t talk, doesn’t make Stiles talk. He simply switches on the TV and lets the drone of some random news channel wash over them.

It takes an hour. An hour before the rigidity eases from Stiles’ shoulders, and he feels less like razing the world to the ground.

Only then does Peter speak, like he can sense the moment Stiles is willing to listen again.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a very angry individual?” Peter enquires, tone so mild it’s as if he’s commenting on the weather and not addressing an issue that most people would probably recommend a therapist or psychologist for.

“Nope,” Stiles pops the p just because he can. His fingers dig into his thighs before loosening again. “Most people would say I don’t even get angry all that often.”

Peter scoffs. “Clearly, most people are willfully blind. You don’t even hide it all that well. It’s your self-control that’s astonishing. But then, that’s humanity for you – they’d rather not look something they don’t want to deal with in the face until they absolutely have to.”

Stiles musters a wan smile. He clasps his hands. Unclasps them. Looks down at his palms.

“It’s-” He licks his lips. “I know I have a- a problem, sometimes.”

He sneaks a glance at Peter. Blue eyes gaze steadily back even as broad shoulders lift in a graceful shrug. “It’s not a problem if you know how to channel it. If you have someone to pull you back from the edge. Your control is already arguably better than mine was when I was your age.”

Stiles blinks, turning his head to look at Peter more directly. Peter quirks a sardonic smile. “Oh Stiles, you don’t really think you’re the only one with some anger issues tucked away inside you, do you?”

The werewolf seems to consider something as he examines the slightly elongated nails of one hand. “…My sister, you know, was always the perfect child. She could do no wrong. Our parents doted on her, the firstborn, the future Alpha, the perfect daughter anyone could ask for. Me though, I was… an accident. I came along late in our parents’ lives, unexpected, a full twelve years younger than Talia, with another sister and brother before me. Alice was ten years older, Nathan, eight. When Laura was born, I was six. Barely ten when Derek came along. Our parents didn’t know what the hell to do with me, not when Talia was just about ready to take over the Alpha position in a few years, and they were ready to retire to some remote cabin in the woods in Seattle. So mostly, they just ignored me. Oh I never went without food, and I had nice clothes and books and toys. It wouldn’t do for a member of the Hale family to look and have anything but the best. We were old money after all. But they didn’t treat me the way they treated Talia, and once my sister started popping out children, I was suddenly stuck being one of them, ordered around, told what I could and couldn’t do, even given a goddamn bedtime curfew  _by my own sister_  so I couldn’t even stay up late reading. You can imagine how much that  _chafed_.”

Peter’s lip curls, and Stiles catches a glimpse of fangs. The werewolf looks bitterly amused.

“And to top it all off, there was never really any place for me. After Laura was born, everybody knew she would be the next Alpha, Talia’s firstborn, with the necessary potential for the position. I never stood a chance. And maybe that would’ve been okay because Talia made me her enforcer once I was old enough, and I was better suited for doing the dirty work anyway, taking care of problems before they became a threat to the Pack and maintaining a network of contacts on the side that would make Talia look bad if she was seen talking to them.”

Peter’s mouth twists. “But she always disapproved of what I did. Even though it was my  _job_ , even though she  _gave me_  that job, and I was  _excellent_  at it, it wasn’t- it wasn’t a  _good_  job. I snuck around behind people’s backs, dished out whatever blackmail was necessary at the time, used more underhanded methods when Talia’s diplomacy talks didn’t work, and she  _judged_   _me for it._ Always. And it passed down to her children of course. Laura learned how to be an Alpha on her mother’s knee. She sneered at what I did for the family, turned up her damn nose whenever I got back with blood on my hands. We were peaceful on the surface. Most packs were, what with the number of hunters growing by the day, and we’re supposed to be  _civilized_ in this day and age. But talking didn’t always work, and someone had to step in when a situation came to a head, and they  _dared condemn me for it_ -”

Stiles touches the back of Peter’s hand, and Peter jolts like he’s been electrocuted. But his claws stop digging into the couch, and the otherworldly blue fades from his eyes. His gaze focuses on the here and now, on Stiles, and there’s no telling who moves first but they’re soon curled up together against one arm of the couch, and everything is a little calmer.

“How’d you deal?” Stiles asks, tucking his head under Peter’s chin.

Peter’s ensuing snort of wry derision ruffles Stiles’ hair. “I didn’t, not really, unless you call petty revenge ‘dealing’. I used to embarrass Talia at social gatherings between packs sometimes, nothing too serious that would cause a blood feud or anything but it always got a rise out of Talia. And I remember stealing Laura’s toys when we were both kids, hiding them away so well that even my sister didn’t have proof it was me. That didn’t stop her from punishing me though. And Derek, he used to follow me around  _everywhere_  once he could walk, so I’d ditch him in the woods – near the edge of the treeline of our property of course, I’m not  _that_  heartless – and he’d cry until his mother came running. You’d think he’d have learned not to trust me but…”

Peter shakes his head with a deprecating sigh.

“I was always angry at them, at all of them, even the relatives I never really saw aside from holiday get-togethers. I hid it fairly well but there was always a part of me that wanted them to  _hurt_. I loved them, I wouldn’t have taken them out trick-or-treating or picked them up after school or taken Laura out to her first supernatural bar when she turned twenty-one otherwise, I wouldn’t have  _protected_  them otherwise, but… I think I hated them too, because none of them ever did the same for me.”

He clutches at Stiles a little tighter for a minute. “I killed Laura in a fit of feral rage, when she wouldn’t even hear me out about going after the Argents, about putting a stop to a threat that would  _always_  be a threat to us so long as they were alive, and she was so- so  _self-righteous_  about it, so much like her mother, ordering me to stand down like she had  _any right at all_. I killed her, and it was never just because she left me to rot.”

He falls silent. The murmur of the TV buzzes in the background. Stiles wriggles around until he’s chest to chest with Peter, and then he folds the werewolf in a hug.

Peter hugs him back like Stiles is a lifeline in an ocean that the werewolf’s been drowning in for a very long time, and when he presses his nose into Stiles’ neck, he breathes him in like nothing else matters.

Stiles stares over Peter’s shoulder at the far wall. And then he says, “Well now I feel like a brat. My problems are tiny compared to yours.”

Peter huffs an exasperated breath. “It’s not a contest, Stiles. And they weren’t  _always_  the way I described them. There were times we got along too.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean your family wasn’t a bunch of dicks.”

Peter snorts, and the sound is filled with much more genuine amusement this time.

“…I’m not like that though,” Stiles admits after a few seconds of feeling the thump of Peter’s heart against his ribs. “I mean you had legitimate reason to be pissed most of the time. I don’t. Not really. I just get… irrationally angry sometimes. Sometimes it’s not even anger, it’s just…” He pauses. “Like, I look at Isaac sometimes, always with Scott now, and I imagine strangling him with his own scarf? And like, Erica, she dented my car when she used it to hit me, and it’s  _my mom’s car_ , so I didn’t care that she was a girl or a former bully victim, I still wanted to stake her with wolfsbane, and the only reason I helped her later when she had a seizure was because we were supposed to be on the same side. I just- I mean that’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

He makes sure he’s looking at Peter’s face when he finishes, makes sure he’s braced for whatever reaction is coming next, but all Peter does is arch an eyebrow.

“Do you have any idea how many times in my life I’ve imagined ripping Talia’s throat out?” Peter volleys back rhetorically. “When our parents came to visit, and they asked how her life was going but couldn’t even be bothered to take a look at my report card, I wanted to sink my claws into all three of them. Most people would say that’s a little extreme too.”

“That’s different, they were your parents and they never acted like it-”

“Your father doesn’t act much like your father either,” Peter cuts in, and it’s like a knife to the heart.

Stiles flinches. Peter smiles but it’s a brittle thing. “And you don’t even imagine killing him. I’d say you’re already holding it together better than I ever did.”

Stiles wants to argue the point. His dad  _is_  a good father, if a bit distant, but he’s the Sheriff and in charge of an entire county, not just this town, and that doesn’t leave a whole lot of spare time for him to waste.

But Stiles is also tired, and he’s run out of emotional highs for the day. He really doesn’t feel like picking a fight, especially not with Peter.

“Scott must have said something to set you off today,” Peter continues, and Stiles jerks up again, mouth dropping open.

“I never said I was at Scott’s!”

Peter rolls his eyes. “I can smell him on you. Isaac too. You’ve barely spent any length of time with them for months so it’s especially jarring today.”

And as if to prove his point, the werewolf runs a possessive hand over Stiles’ head and down his back, scenting him and erasing Scott and Isaac’s presence while he’s at it.

“It’s- He didn’t say anything I didn’t already expect to hear sooner or later,” Stiles mumbles. “But I guess I wasn’t as prepared to hear it as I thought I was.”

“Or perhaps today was simply the last straw,” Peter points out. “You can’t tell me the past several months have been easy on you, Stiles, and you never snapped during any of that time.”

Stiles purses his lips and flops over until his head is lying on the armrest, and Peter’s lap is somewhere below his shoulder blades. “…You make things easier.”

The corners of Peter’s eyes crinkle with a smile, and the werewolf doesn’t need to say it out loud for Stiles to know that in this, the feeling is mutual.

“You have a darkness in you, Stiles, just like me,” Peter tells him in level tones. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has it. The two of us simply also have… less of a desire to suppress that darkness, that’s all.”

Stiles shuts his eyes for a moment, focusing on breathing and nothing else. Peter’s hand rests on his chest, and it’s a grounding touch even though the werewolf isn’t applying any force at all.

It must’ve been hard for Peter, to give Stiles another piece of his past, another piece of his heart, no matter how smoothly delivered. Maybe one day soon, Stiles can give him a secret in return, a piece of his own past, his own heart.

He opens his eyes. “Don’t let me go crazy, okay? Because sometimes, I could swear I already am. And other times, I know I’m close. I don’t want to lose it. So don’t let me, okay?”

Peter stares back down at him, steadfast and solemn. “I’ll be your anchor if you’ll be mine.”

Stiles’ mouth twitches with a shaky smile. His fingers tangle in the fabric of Peter’s shirt. “Yeah, okay. Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	32. Scales and Treasure (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are cultural differences, politics, and fluff. But mostly fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Preslash, Dragon Stiles, Werewolf Politics, Werewolf Culture, Dragon Culture, Fluff, Original Character(s)
> 
> Not really in order? Sort of in order? Mostly, they’re all in the same ’verse. Might come back later to write a follow-up to Pt.1.

 

Stiles has three heartbeats.  Three hearts.  They beat a consecutive _thump-thump-thump_ one after the other instead of in sync, and the rhythm is slower than a human’s.  Stiles explains that he still has three hearts when he’s in human form but some sort of innate magic prevents others from hearing anything out of the ordinary.  How else would they hide after all?  There’s no point walking around on two legs and a fragile body if a simple thing like heartbeats would give them away to a shifter in an instant.

Which is another thing Peter finds fascinating.  Honestly, the list is endless.  But Stiles’ ability to casually break the laws of physics and shrink and grow at will is astounding.  Then again, it’s the supernatural – they’re _all_ breaking the laws of physics one way or another.  But the shrinking and growing is more blatant.

The first time Stiles turns into a dragon half the size of Peter’s fist, Peter is being sent to Palo Alto to hopefully secure a chance at renewing an old alliance with the Atkins Pack.  They’re moderate-sized and were staunch allies of the Hale Pack during Talia’s reign.  It was Peter who suggested repairing at least some of the bridges that were burned along with the majority of his family now that the Argents have mostly been decimated, and the McCall Pack is… well, semi-stabilizing, in the loosest sense of the word, and even Scott can see the sense in this.  He wasn’t entirely convinced about letting _Peter_ go, but considering the fact that Peter is the only one who even knows about the other packs out there and has intimate knowledge of at least three-quarters of them, he’s really the only one who _can_ go.  Derek is largely clueless and would probably start a turf war anyway if his eyebrows and penchant for violence were sent, and Scott simply doesn’t know enough about pack etiquette – and doesn’t seem particularly enthusiastic to learn either – to do the negotiation.

So Peter agrees to go, very smugly too because no matter how much most of the Pack hates it, they still _need_ him, and that alone serves to soothe a little of the bitter resentment that he can never forget when he spends any amount of time with the town’s resident idiots.

Stiles wants to go.  Of course he does.  It would be a learning experience, and he can act as a second brain, intimidation, _and_ Peter’s shield and sword should he need it.  Also, if there’s one person Peter sees as Pack these days, it’s Stiles, and Stiles spends the majority of his time around Peter so Peter’s pretty sure Stiles sees him as Clan.  It makes his wolf preen, embarrassingly, _pathetically_ enough, so he doesn’t ever mention it.  Actions speak louder than words anyway.

But Stiles has school, and even if he doesn’t, Peter doubts the Sheriff would let his son go off to Palo Alto with a former serial killer.  The Sheriff doesn’t like him.  That one time he catches Stiles napping on top of Peter on the Stilinskis’ living room couch probably didn’t help his case.

Stiles sulks about it of course.  For a dragon that can grow to the size of Beacon Hills’ tallest tree, he can be adorably childish at times.  He keeps mumbling threateningly about following Peter’s plane, which makes for a comical – if potentially alarming – mental image.

It’s not like Peter doesn’t _want_ to bring him along.  Being so far apart makes him feel antsier than he’d care to admit, and alright, Palo Alto isn’t _that_ far away but it might as well be halfway around the globe for all the good it’ll do them if one of them gets in trouble.  Beacon Hills is a cesspit for monsters, with an Alpha who doesn’t know what he’s doing ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, and Peter’s supposed to trust Stiles to _that_ when he isn’t around to watch the dragon’s back?

And Stiles makes an equally compelling argument.  Peter’s reputation precedes him.  The Atkins Alpha – Philip Atkins – liked Talia but was always – and rightfully so – wary of Peter.  But even worse than that, _Scott’s_ reputation precedes him.  Too young, too soft, too weak, letting killers and psychopaths walk away – letting _Gerard Argent_ walk away – even after they attacked and even killed his packmates.  A True Alpha in name only.  Nothing to be afraid of.  But nothing to respect either.  Why would anyone want to ally with that?  Peter would be looked down on just for defending someone like Scott McCall, mocked even, and he won’t even have any backup should things go south.

Still, it’s not like they have much of a choice.  Peter had to pull quite a few strings and do even more fast-talking to even get them a face-to-face meeting with the Atkins Pack’s Second, Matthew, Philip’s brother. And Peter won’t be doing anything except letting Matthew get a feel for the McCall Pack first.  There would be no treaty drawn up this first time, not until Philip decides to take a chance on them, and only then would there be any solid discussions of a treaty.  And Scott _would_ have to be present for that.

So it’s up to Peter to act as representative, and he would have to paint Scott and his puppies and Peter’s own emotionally stunted nephew in a good light without lying.  Too much.  God help him.

Truthfully, he _should_ take someone with him.  The Atkins’ Second will be bringing along at least one other Beta, probably two, maybe three.  But who the hell is Peter supposed to take?  Derek?  The idiot would probably punch someone the first time somebody slings an insult at them or brings up the Hale fire.  And the rest of the McCall Pack aren’t even out of their teens yet, they don’t have permission to _skip school_ for fuck’s sake, and aside from Stiles, not a single one of them knows how to act in front of another pack.  Well, Lydia might, but she’s just as likely to challenge Peter’s authority during the meeting as any of the others, all false bravado and righteous indignation, and they _would_ be judged for that.  Judged _so_ badly, and found pitifully wanting.

So Peter doesn’t dare take any of them.  He’d rather handle this alone than shoot himself in the foot pre-emptively.  There’s enough working against him as it is.  And he doesn’t even want to _think_ about the headache Scott McCall is going to give him if – by some miracle – they actually manage to make it to the treaty stage without incident.

Stiles is sullen right up until Peter has to leave.  And then – when Stiles swings by his apartment to see him off before school – he’s all Bambi eyes and _I’m not plotting anything_ innocence that instantly makes Peter justifiably suspicious.  But Stiles doesn’t do anything except wave at him from his jeep as a taxi pulls up at the curb, and Peter has no more time figure out what Stiles is up to.

 

* * *

 

Peter hates airports.  He hates crowded areas in general, especially these days, when he’s so much more paranoid about someone trying to kill him.  Rightfully so; someone is almost always trying to kill him, but it doesn’t do any favours to his instincts.  On one hand, crowds are easy to get lost in, to lose a tail.  On the other, _crowds_.

But Derek won’t let him borrow the Camaro, and Peter never bothered buying a car – he actually prefers walking most of the time – and a drive from Beacon Hills to Palo Alto would take an irritating number of hours anyway, so plane it is.

He’s stored his carry-on in the overhead compartment and taken his seat when he hears it.  Flight attendants and other passengers are bustling back and forth around him.  Even first class is busy with activity before takeoff but at least he gets seat and space to himself.

He’s just settling down with his laptop when-

_Thump-thump-thump—thump-thump-thump—thump-thump-thump—_

Peter _knows_ that sound.  It’s practically imprinted into his memory these days.  Except that sound _shouldn’t be here_.

He suppresses his first urge to check the window.  There would be a lot more screaming if there’s a dragon sitting outside on the landing strip.  Instead, he focuses his hearing, honing in on the heartbeat.  Werewolves – and various other supernatural creatures – can hear a lot more than the average human being but that doesn’t mean they hear everything every second of the day.  That would drive anyone crazy.  So just as humans do, they tune out a lot of background noise, registering only the most forefront sounds around them.  The only reason Peter picks up that familiar waltzing heartbeat now is because he isn’t moving around anymore, and the interior of the plane _is_ a lot quieter than the airport despite the other people around him.

He cocks his head now.  And then he looks up, straight at the bottom exterior of the overhead compartment.

_Thump-thump-thump—thump-thump-thump—thump-thump-thump—_

He closes his eyes.  Counts to ten.  Then he opens his eyes, stands, and opens the compartment again to unzip his carry-on.

For a long moment, he doesn’t see anything.  A flight attendant drifts by so Peter pretends to thumb through one of the files in his bag.  She passes, and after a surreptitious glance left and right, Peter hisses, “Stiles, get out here _right now_.”

Silence, save for the _thump-thump-thump_ that quickens a little with trepidation.  And then a flash of bronze at the bottom of the bag – right behind one tail of his scarf – catches Peter’s eye, and all he can do is heave a long-suffering sigh before unfastening his right cufflink and sticking his arm into the bag.  He waits – one, two, three seconds – and then the smooth glide of sun-warm scales brush against his skin as tiny paws scamper their way up his sleeve.

Peter is _not_ fighting back a smile.

He zips up his carry-on again and closes the compartment before taking his seat once more.  A clever rearrangement of his jacket lets him deposit his illegal passenger into its dark folds.

“Really?”  Peter mutters under his breath, directing his most unimpressed look at the dragon sitting unrepentantly on his lap.  Except-

Except Stiles is really goddamn cute like this.  He’s mentioned his ability to adjust his size before but it’s still unexpected.  He’s _tiny_ – everything from his wings to his snout to the tip of his tail is tiny, and it’s like having a miniature ball of light in his lap.  Peter can definitely fit him in one palm, and when he pokes the dragon’s belly with one finger, tiny sharp fangs latch on and _gnaw_ like a teething kitten.

It’s hilarious _and_ adorable.  But it doesn’t excuse the fact that Peter now has an uninvited hitchhiker on his hands.

“You aren’t supposed to be here, Stiles,” Peter reminds him, schooling his expression into something stern.  “Your father will be worried.”

“I left him a note,” Stiles chirps.  And he does.  He _chirps_.  His voice is more high-pitched than usual, and it’s- it’s really goddamn adorable, and Peter should not be thinking that because he’s supposed to be scolding Stiles.

“A note isn’t going to stop him from worrying,” Peter admonishes.  “What about school?  And all your little friends?”

Stiles gives the impression of shrugging, his little wings flapping with the motion.  “Pascale at the station takes all my school calls, and she has fun making up excuses for me whenever the admin calls about my absences.  And she never tells my dad.  I’m pretty sure Dad’s forgotten the school actually _makes_ phone calls about absences in the first place.  And my friends can deal.  They don’t really notice what I do most of the time anyway.”

He snuffles at the collar of Peter’s coat before wriggling his way inside.  His head pops back out, and he stares hopefully up at Peter.  “And now that I’m here, I might as well go with you!”

Peter sighs again but one corner of his mouth ticks up.  Luckily, it doesn’t betray him to Stiles, who’s too busy arranging the collar to his liking to notice.

“You know, I don’t _need_ you with me,” Peter points out even though he already feels better with Stiles’ scent curling in his nose, his wolf settling contentedly at the back of his mind.  “I don’t expect the meeting to get too violent, if it does at all.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles huffs stubbornly.  “I-”

Peter flips a part of the jacket over Stiles’ head, muffling the rest of what he has to say just as a polite female voice enquires from his right side, “Sir, are you alright?”

A bit of sleight of hand has Peter removing a Bluetooth earpiece from his left ear and glancing up at the attendant with an arched eyebrow.  The woman looks abashed and hastily excuses herself with an apology.

His coat squeaks indignantly.

“I’m not talking to you anymore,” Peter mutters, tugging back the jacket again.  “You’ll have to amuse yourself if you’re not going to fly yourself home.  Which I really think you should do.”

Stiles crawls out of the coat and glowers, not quite hiding the hurt.  “If you don’t want me here, you could just _say_.”  His wings snap out like he’s about to take flight, and Peter’s hand shoots out before he even consciously thinks about it, touching two fingers to Stiles’ flank.

“Stiles, of course I _want_ you here,” Peter ducks his head a little to catch the dragon’s amber eyes again.  “You- I always want you around, you know that.”

“No I _don’t_ know that,” Stiles snaps, but some of the rigidity leaves his frame.  “Because you never _say_.”

“Well.”  Peter pauses.  “Well, you don’t say either.”

“Yes I do!”  The dragon’s tail lashes from side to side.  “I told my dad you’re Clan!  Why do you think he lets you come over all the time?  And you nest with me on the couch, and I cook for you, and I give you presents from my hoard, and humans don’t like that sort of thing when they think the age difference is too big, but I told Dad you’re Clan so he doesn’t say anything about it.”  He bares his teeth in a sneer.  “Of course, you’re just _Peter I-don’t-need-anyone-I-just-wanna-be-Alpha-and-I’ll-rip-your-throat-out-if-it-benefits-me Hale_ so I’m not expecting jumping jacks of joy but you could at _least_ be a little _grateful-_ ”

Peter picks him up.  Stiles yelps, almost falling over from the suddenness of a hand scooping him into the air and lifting him up to eye-level.  Peter still has the good sense to angle his body towards the wall of the plane, hiding Stiles from view, but he doesn’t break eye contact with the dragon, who – after recovering his footing – quivers like he’s about to burst into a bigger size.

“You’re my Pack,” Peter says point-blank.  “You’re the only one in the entire world I consider my packmate.  And I’m very happy you came after me, that you’re here.”  He stops for a moment, feeling the pulse of surprise swell along their pack bond.  “I haven’t said any of that because… well, I guess I thought you’d feel it if you felt the same.  Werewolves are very instinctual creatures, and the two of us already have a pack bond.  I thought you knew.”

Stiles is silent for a long minute.  He looks away, out the window, then back, finally mumbling, “…The pack bond’s that glowy bridge thing I can feel in my chest, isn’t it?”

Peter can’t say he’s ever heard a pack bond being described that way but yes, he supposes it is.

“Dragons aren’t like that,” Stiles continues almost distantly.  “We just- Clan is Clan.  You just _know_.  If Clan’s in trouble, you’d feel it.  If Clan is in a valley in Lhotse, you’d find them.  If Clan roars for help from a sea cave a thousand miles under the ocean, you’d still hear it.  That’s Clan.  There’s no specific bond that connects you because _all_ of you is connected.  It’s a… mental thing.  Or spiritual maybe.  But it’s a _whole_ thing, not just a part.  You give everything to your Clan because your Clan will give everything to you.”

Peter listens, fascinated all over again because he already knows about Clan but he didn’t know it entails so much, and… it makes sense, why Stiles doesn’t really understand the pack bond even though he clearly already feels it.

“Pack bonds are like that, to some degree,” Peter says slowly.  “But I guess they don’t… go as deep.”  Which is something he never thought he’d say about a pack bond, but compared to… _clan_ bonds, it does seem a bit… inadequate.  He pauses.  “I’m your Clan then?”

“I already said so, didn’t I?”  Stiles growls, much crankier again this time, but his wings smooth back so it doesn’t seem as if he’s about to take off any moment.

Peter mulls that over quietly, lowering Stiles back into his lap.  “…Will I feel… all that someday?  I mean, if you consider me Clan, then…”

“If you roar for help in a sea cave a thousand miles underwater, I’d hear it,” Stiles confirms grumpily, temporarily disappearing into Peter’s coat again.

“Not sure how I’d _get_ a thousand miles underwater without already being dead, but I appreciate the sentiment,” Peter allows, smirking briefly at the glare he gets for that one.  “So, would I?”

“I dunno, do I?” Stiles grumbles from the depths of Peter’s jacket.  “My mom died before she could pass on all her dragon-y wisdom to me, and she hoarded music, not books, so I can’t even read up on it.”  The coat stops wiggling for a moment.  “…I’ve never had a clan before.  Mom didn’t really count.  You don’t usually count Sire ’cause hatchlings leave their parents’ nest once they start feeling the urge to build their own clan.  And Dad only sort of counts but he was more Mom’s Clan than mine, and once you’re part of one clan, even if that clan dies, it’s rare to attach yourself to a new one.  Instincts rebel against it.”  The jacket starts twitching again with Stiles’ movements.  “But I don’t see why not.  I mean my dad felt it with my mom, just a little but he did, and he’s one hundred percent human.  You’re attached to a dragon now.  Maybe it just takes longer for a non-dragon.  Or you just don’t want to enough.”

Peter stiffens, lips thinning.  “…I want to.”

Stiles doesn’t answer.

The intercom crackles, announcing takeoff, and for a while, as the plane leaves the airstrip, neither Peter nor Stiles says a word.

“I want to,” Peter repeats once the engine is a constant rumble, and the other passengers are all engrossed in books or work or whatever else they have on hand. Most even conveniently have earphones plugged in.

“…Sometimes, you can want to and not want to at the same time,” Stiles tells him sagely, still out of sight, and Peter is reminded that while Stiles is very young for a dragon, he’s still already lived three times as many years as Peter has.  “You’ve already lost a pack.  You might not want to risk your heart over another one.  And that’s okay.  I understand.  But you can be _my_ Clan without me being _your_ Clan, so quit-”

“-putting words in my mouth,” Peter cuts him off, and his jacket goes still again.  “I know what I want, Stiles.  And no, I _don’t_ want to lose another packmate again.  No one would.  But that doesn’t mean I- that doesn’t mean I won’t… risk my heart for- this.”

 _For you_.  He grimaces, embarrassed despite himself.  “You’re very… straightforward.”

“I’m a dragon,” Stiles retorts.  “We like words.  Wordplay.  Wordsmithing.  We can be tricky with them – we do love riddles – but not when there’s no need.”

“And yet, you can’t take a compliment without blushing,” Peter reminds him dryly.  The coat gives an annoyed twitch.

Peter watches the lump in his coat fidget.  “Stiles.”

It takes almost ten seconds but Stiles’ head finally emerges, eyes wary in a way that makes Peter sigh.  “You’re already Pack to me.  Why would you think I wouldn’t want to be Clan too?”

Stiles blinks up at him, once, measured and assessing.  Peter stares back, and then he turns his focus inward, reaching for the pack bond inside him and opening the floodgates before _shoving_ everything he already feels for Stiles through the bond, a bundle of _curiosityfascinationwantadmirationpossessivenesslove_ and more, everything that can’t really be put into words.

In his lap, Stiles shudders, swaying dazedly for a moment before giving himself a shake, and shock and pleasure bounces back along the bond.  Peter smiles, and when Stiles sees it, the dragon promptly perks up, his scales glowing brighter and brighter until Peter cups a hand around the dragon’s head.

“Now you understand,” Peter whispers.

“But that’s- that’s what _I_ feel,” Stiles murmurs.  “You didn’t- You didn’t have to _hide_ it.”

Peter’s wolf _purrs_ at that revelation even as he admits, “I kept it back because I didn’t want to push you into anything.  It might’ve scared you.  And I suppose… well, it would leave me in a rather… vulnerable position if you didn’t feel the same.”

“You’ll feel it soon!”  Stiles promises, rearing up onto his haunches.  “I mean I could-” The pack bond thrums faintly, a dim rush of emotion crossing it, but not much more than that.  “But you’ll feel it _my_ way soon.  Then you’ll know for sure.”

Peter regards the tiny dragon fondly, and this time, when he curls a hand around Stiles, Stiles flops into his palm like it’s a bed before peering up at him.  “You _are_ happy I came though?”

Peter chuckles.  “Yes, Stiles.  I’m very happy.”

“Good,” Stiles says decisively and settles down, curling into a ball with his tail draped over his nose.  “Good.”

 

* * *

 

The meeting with the Atkins Pack goes well.  Sort of.  At the very least, Peter gets what he wants – a second meeting, one where Philip would meet Scott.

Mostly because the Atkins Pack is now under the impression that the McCall Pack is a whole lot more powerful than the rumours say, but it’s really their own fault.  If the female hot-tempered Beta Matthew brought along, Britta, didn’t make one snide remark too many about how far the Hales have fallen, and then – when not a single one of her belligerent insults result in anything more than a brief uninterested, dismissive glance from Peter – attempted to scare him with a display of aggressive teeth and claws and flashing gold eyes that didn’t even make Peter’s heartbeat pick up speed, _Stiles_ wouldn’t have busted out _his_ teeth and claws – both of which are sharper and longer – and serpentine pupils that burn with an inner fire.

Stiles, whom Matthew and the other two Betas took one look at when they first arrived at the agreed upon diner and wrote off as a mere teenage human boy.

They’re still not quite _sure_ what Stiles is, and it isn’t polite – or very smart – to outright ask about that kind of thing, but Stiles smells of power and storms and the purest of fires, and that’s enough to stop anyone in their tracks.

The Atkins Pack originally thought that the McCall Pack consisted of a bunch of bumbling teenagers and a few Hale hangers-on, and honestly, they weren’t that far off the mark.  But now they’ve met _Stiles_ , who is something they don’t know, Stiles whom they presume is another trusted representative that True Alpha McCall wisely sent, and between the formidable combination of Peter’s ruthless, silver-tongued reputation and an intimidating unknown, they can only wonder what _else_ the McCall Pack has that might be a boon to them if they agree to an alliance but prove lethal to them – or at least make them regret a missed chance – if they refuse.

For now, Peter can work with that.

“I think that went pretty well,” Stiles comments cheerfully on their way back to the hotel.

Peter smirks, their joined hands swinging gently between them as they walk down the street.  “It certainly could’ve gone worse,” He agrees.  “Now we just have to beat some etiquette and politics into Scott’s head.”

Stiles winces.  “Well, one problem at a time, right?  For now, since we finished early,” He peers up at Peter through a fan of dark lashes.  “Maybe we can go sightseeing?  I’ve never been to Palo Alto before.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but it’s helplessly fond.  “Yes, alright.  Just let me make a reservation for dinner tonight.  We might as well enjoy a meal at Evvia.  It’s one of my favourite Greek restaurants.”

Stiles beams.  They have the rest of today and all of tomorrow to themselves.  Peter intends to make the most of it before they have to return to their duties back home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	33. One Hoot of a Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm blows Stiles off-course.  Really off-course.  _Suspiciously_ off-course, considering it sends him tumbling straight through a window and into the lap of a scarred, paralyzed man.  But, well.  Neither of them are complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Pre-Season 1, Preslash, Wereowl Stiles, Scars, Fluff
> 
> Lol now I’m just going through random animals for Stiles.

 

 

Stiles knows he shouldn’t have risked it.  Should’ve just stayed with Scott and Kira down south for a week or so longer.  But his two friends were just getting mushier by the day ever since they finally got their asses in gear and started dating, and Stiles can only stand so much mutual gooey eyes before his stomach threatens to rebel.  Besides, owls are solitary creatures by nature, aside from their mate.  And yeah, they’re also human, but Scott’s still the weird one for wanting to befriend every human and supernatural creature he comes across, and do the whole high school gig.

Not Stiles.  Stiles prefers longer periods of time spent on his own, prefers self-study.  He learns better that way anyway, more than sitting in a classroom all day and trying not to fidget his feathers into existence.

So he leaves.  He promises to give Scott a call once he gets home to his own little cabin-in-the-woods up in Wyoming that has so many haunted rumours attached to it that he’s generally left in peace because even gung-ho hikers avoid his part of the forest.

He _thought_ he’d be able to outfly the storm.  He could already hear the rumble of thunder in the distance before he even left Scott’s place but it was still pretty far away.  The weather isn’t always predictable though, and when the winds picked up and blew the storm in faster, Stiles ends up buffeted by icy rain and erratic airstreams until he’s forced to veer off and let the storm take him where it will or risk breaking a wing.

It still takes a lot of his strength to make sure the wind doesn’t just snatch him up and drive him into the ocean or something.  His feathers are soaked, his muscles are aching, and by the time he finally gets low enough to search for a nice sturdy branch to land on, a tree that he can take cover in until this storm blows over, his aerial control is near nonexistent, and he ends up skimming right past the treetops of a forest and spilling straight into a human town.

And to make matters worse, he doesn’t _just_ get dumped into a human town.  Oh no.  With the luck he’s been having, of _course_ the storm would send him careening straight into the side of a building, straight through an open _window_ , and tumbling tail feathers over beak straight into the lap of a _human_.

He doesn’t stay on the lap, if only because gravity and momentum don’t work that way.  He ends up flipping himself right onto the cold hard floor in a heap of drenched plumage and dizziness brought on by exhaustion and pain.  He’s pretty sure some of his feathers have been ripped out.

Stiles really, _really_ just wants to lie there, but he’s in a manmade building, he just crash-landed on a _person_ , and he has no desire to be caught by people wanting to keep him as a pet or send him to an animal shelter or even just patch him up and set him free once the storm is over.  He can take care of himself, thank you very much.

So he half-flaps, half-flails his way back onto his feet, talons clicking against the floor as he hops twice in the direction of the window, spreads his wings, and launches himself towards it.

Or _tries_ to anyway.  He gets maybe three feet of height before he’s dropping back to the ground, and it only takes him a moment to realize what’s wrong.  Two of the primaries in his left wing’s been torn clean off, and a bunch of his primary-coverts are bent at angles that can’t be anything but broken.

_For fuck’s sake._

So he does the next best thing.  And okay, he might be panicking just a bit, which is probably why he winds up looking around the room wildly before scrambling for cover in the closest place he can find – under the bed.

He scoots right up against the wall, in the corner farthest from the galloping heartbeat coming from the only other occupant in the room.  And then he holds himself very, very still and tries not to hyperventilate.

He’s never done something this stupid before.  Or _had_ something this stupid happen to him before.  And he’s freezing his butt feathers off to boot.  He _hates_ the cold.

For a long while, he simply huddles there, even as he begins to calm down.  Minutes pass, and it finally occurs to him – why hasn’t the human tried to come after him yet?  Now that he thinks about it, the human didn’t even exclaim when Stiles collided with him out of the blue.  The only indication that the human noticed Stiles at all was the racing heartbeat, and even that’s settling back down now to a slower, steadier tempo.

Footsteps interrupt his thoughts, and he flattens himself back against the wall as much as possible even though anyone coming in would definitely not be able to see him.  He watches the white shoes enter the room and hurry over to where the window is.  He almost groans when he hears them sliding it shut.

The person leaves again, muttering about the suddenness of the storm.  It’s a woman, judging by her voice, and her strides are brisk as she exits the room.

Stiles gives it a good three minutes before he begins to relax.  The other occupant seemed tense as well when the woman came in but they never made a sound, and the woman didn’t so much as spare a second to say hi.

Curiosity wins out in the end.  It’s one of Stiles’ numerous bad habits.  But – cautiously – he shuffles his way back towards the human, pausing every few seconds to listen for any sign that said human might lunge for him, and then, finally, he sticks his head out and takes a peek.

A second later, he’s skittering back under the bed, assessing what he just saw.  The occupant is a human male, with a scarred face and curly dark hair and blue eyes that stare at some middle distance between the floor and the windowsill instead of anywhere near Stiles’ vicinity.  He’s sitting in a wheelchair with a blanket draped over his lap, and if it isn’t for the uptick in his heartbeat once again, Stiles wouldn’t think he knows Stiles is here at all.

He takes a deep breath, and his sense of smell isn’t great but the scent of antiseptic and bleach and sickness and lingering death is plenty clear now that he focuses.

Ah.  So he’s in a hospital.

And it seems like… the man can’t move?  Those scars looked like burn scars, and pretty bad ones at that.  Stiles hesitates, and then – once more – waddles his way out from under the bed, this time carefully ducking out into the open entirely.

The man’s heartrate picks up again, except he isn’t looking in Stiles’ direction, so he can probably _hear_ Stiles but not see him.

Stiles dithers.  The window’s closed, so – at least for now – his best escape route is gone.  It’s looking more and more like he’ll probably have to stay here for the time being, and honestly, it isn’t very polite to scare a paralyzed man who doesn’t have a clear picture of who’s in his room with him.

He sighs.  And then – still a bit wary – he hops his way over to the bedside table, claws his way up using the handles, and finally clambers onto the surface.

There.  He’s still not directly in the man’s line of sight but he should be able to see Stiles out of the corner of his eye.

“Hoo-oo,” Stiles hoots a greeting, and the man’s heart goes pitter-pat.  Probably not in the romantic way.

“Hoooo,” Stiles assures.  Not that he thinks the man can understand him, but he keeps his voice soft and soothing.  Humans like that sort of thing, and it seems to work for this man.  His heartbeat is still faster than normal but no longer scared-fast, and Stiles decides that that’s the best he’s going to get.

He’s tired.  And he doesn’t want to take his chances flying through the hospital looking for a way out, especially if the woman from before was probably going around shutting all the windows to block out the storm.

His wings sort of hurt but he ignores it as he spreads them again and floats his way to the floor.  He sidles back under the bed, right into the corner, and when the room’s human occupant doesn’t react with a jump in his heartrate again, Stiles shuts his eyes and goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up again from a restless nap, he’s relatively dry but the storm is still howling and the woman from before is back, except this time she’s moving the man from the wheelchair into the bed, and none too gently if the sudden heavy dip of the bed is anything to go by.  She’s efficient but clinical as she lays the man out and pulls the blankets up over him, and then she’s leaving again, shutting the door behind her.

Stiles pokes his head out, and then the rest of him.  It takes a bit of time but he eventually manages to scrabble his way onto the bed.  Then he hops onto the man’s chest and peers down.

Blue eyes stare back at him, sharp and aware and in no way vacant.  They stare and stare and stare.  And then the man blinks first.  Stiles trills triumphantly, fluffing his feathers smugly even as the heartbeat under his talons goes _th-th-thump_ before evening out again.

Somehow, he gets the feeling the man would be rolling his eyes very hard if he could.

So someone _is_ home inside this body, and fully cognizant too.  Stiles wonders what happened.  It must’ve been bad, to leave him like this, and if Stiles is getting the scent of the room right, the man has been here for quite a while now.

Stiles chirps at him before sitting back on the gentle rise and fall of the man’s chest and beginning the arduous process of preening his feathers.  He looks disgustingly bedraggled, now that he checks, and his _wings_.  He growls mournfully at their ragged state but there’s not much else he can do aside from waiting for them to grow back.  It’s fortunate that he’s an owl shifter and not an _actual_ owl.  Healing would take a lot longer otherwise.

The man’s heartbeat drums a constant cadence underneath him.  For now, Stiles keeps him company.

 

* * *

 

The storm lasts a little over a week.  Stiles does actually have to eat but the nurse doesn’t open the window again so Stiles has to risk venturing out into the rest of the hospital.  He finds an unlocked janitor’s closet that has a spare uniform inside and takes shameless advantage of it.  All he has to do is keep his head down, and a bit of pickpocketing gets him more or less regular meals at the cafeteria.

He could leave.  He could walk out, just like this, and no one would be any the wiser.  But he keeps returning to the man – Peter Hale, his medical chart says – and he isn’t quite sure why.  The storm is still raging, he reasons, and his wings aren’t in any condition to fly, so he can’t leave this town anyway.

And Peter isn’t… bad company, compared to quite a few people Stiles has met.  Granted, Peter’s a catatonic patient who isn’t really _capable_ of being bad company so it isn’t a very fair comparison at all.  But sometimes, when the nurse moves Peter into the wheelchair and Stiles flutters up to sit on his lap, the man twitches a few trembling fingers and manages to pet clumsily at Stiles’ feathers, and Stiles thinks it makes Peter happy.

Somehow, that happiness starts mattering to Stiles.

 

* * *

 

It’s pretty clear that Peter either knows about the supernatural or _is_ a supernatural creature himself.  No way can anyone not already in the know be so accepting about an owl that acts far too human to _be_ an owl.  Just the other day, Stiles hooted the Star Wars theme song and he could swear Peter’s chest shook with laughter.

It’s nice someone else knows it.  Scott never gets any Star Wars references, much less any music from it.

But the week inevitably passes, and the skies clear up.  Stiles’ wings are still healing so he sticks around another week, then two, sitting on Peter’s lap or shoulder or chest or head, sneaking out for food but always, always sneaking back in again.

Perhaps it’s because nobody ever comes to visit.  The vase on the nightstand collects dust, the single plastic chair remains empty, and whenever Stiles nestles close, he gets a sense of raw, soul-deep loneliness from Peter that sets every last barb of Stiles’ feathers on edge.  Stiles distracts the man until it begins to ebb, and he’s probably more pleased than he should be when the loneliness starts disappearing entirely just because Stiles is there.

And then, one day, near the end of a full month, he wakes up to the equivalent of a cold nose nudging at the back of his mind.  All his feathers fluff up, and he releases a bark of startled alarm as his wings snap out and his eyes narrow to threatening slits.

The cold nose immediately pulls back, but it’s still _there_ , lingering at the back of his mind, and mere seconds later, he feels another nudge, like a tentative tap hello, the way Stiles might nip a greeting into Scott’s nape whenever they see each other.

Slowly, Stiles folds his wings back in and blinks down at the man he spent last night – and the twenty-eight nights before that – sleeping on.  Blue eyes blink back, except this time, there’s a noticeable crinkle at the corner of the eye that doesn’t droop with the pull of the scars, and there _might_ be a smile lurking at the man’s lips but there’s definitely one in his eyes as he looks up at Stiles.

“Hoo-oot!”  Stiles scolds huffily, not much liking being frightened awake.

Amusement touches his mind, and _oh_.  _Werewolf_.

And then the nurse comes, and Stiles has to dive under the bed again, and annoyance rattles noisily along the fledgling pack bond glowing in Stiles’ mind.

It’s… unnerving.  But perhaps not in a bad way.

Stiles has to wait until Peter is fed and set up in the wheelchair for the day.  Then he half-flies, half-leaps onto Peter’s lap, perching on one knee.

He twists his head all the way around to stare behind him at the window.  It’s open today.  Fair winds blow, and there is no storm on the horizon.  And Stiles’ wings are more or less healed.

But anxiety gnaws at the back of his mind, desperate and almost angry, and uncomfortably close to begging.

Stiles turns his head back and looks up at Peter, at that familiar scarred face and blue eyes that are more frightened in this moment than he’s ever seen them before.  Then he heaves a sigh, bends to rub his head against the back of the werewolf’s hand, and settles down until he’s hungry enough to slip out for a bite to eat.

Relief pours through the bond like water through a sieve, and Peter actually manages to sweep a shaky hand down his back a couple times before his arm muscles give out on him once more.

They spend the day like all their other days, although there’s more playing with their pack bond than anything else, and Peter is eager to show him how to volley emotions back and forth.

But when Peter goes to sleep that night, Stiles waits until the werewolf slips into a deep slumber, and then he leaves, opening the window with human hands before swooping out with all the predatory silence of one of his kind.

 

* * *

 

Stiles’ next morning begins with tea, a hotel keycard, and Peter’s frantic mental snarls in his head because the werewolf has never woken up without Stiles in the room before since the day Stiles took up room and board there.

Stiles grimaces and sends back _on my way!_ signals along the bond, and Peter’s agitation simmers down from accusatory aggression to a controlled but nervous calm.

Slipping back into the hospital is easy.  The security is nothing to gloat about, especially around the long-term care ward.

Stiles makes his way up the hall, wrinkling his nose against the smell of antiseptic and bleach and sickness and death.  He reaches the last room on the right and lets himself in.

Peter – already sitting up in a wheelchair – twitches with something like astonishment and something like awe, and when Stiles walks forward and takes a seat in front of Peter on the single plastic chair in the room, blue eyes drink him in like a man dying of thirst.

Stiles quirks a smile and sets his tea aside before reaching out and taking Peter’s hands in his own.  Those fingers curl, right ones scarred, left ones not, both gripping Stiles back as much as his strength allows.

Stiles’ smile widens.  “My name is Stiles.  It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

And the bond flares between them, the thrilled howl of a wolf answered by the delighted whistle of an owl, and in that moment, with the creation of a new pack, Beacon Hills is claimed once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	34. there’s a ghost on my shoulder (and she refuses to leave) (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are very few lines Stiles won't cross when it comes to getting what he wants. People begin to see that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Ghost Laura, Spark Stiles, Torture, Psychological Torture, Preslash

 

Peter sits on Stiles’ windowsill and smiles like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.  Stiles sits on his bed and tries not to fidget like he’d rather be anywhere but here.  Laura floats in the air and wrings her hands and in general can’t possibly be more useless.

“I have funky dreams sometimes,” Stiles breaks the silence first, shrugging with deliberate nonchalance.  “Especially ever since this town went to hell.”

Peter hums, smile sharper than ever, eyes so focused and intent that Stiles is surprised the werewolf can’t see Laura anyway.

“I see,” Peter’s gaze flits across the room again.  “And do all your dreams feature someone named Laura?”

Damn it.

“Dunno,” Stiles shrugs, keeping his heartbeat steady the way Laura taught him.  “I don’t remember most of them.  Who knows why I dream what I dream?”

Judging by the patronizing look the werewolf levels on him, it’s clear Peter doesn’t believe a single bit of the bullshit coming out of Stiles’ mouth.  Stiles would be surprised if he did.  But the man can’t prove it, and that’s all that matters.  And never let it be said that Stiles can’t deny any and all knowledge until the cows come home, if only to be a contrary little bastard.

Peter opens his mouth, most likely to interrogate Stiles some more, but he doesn’t get the chance before the buzz of Stiles’ phone interrupts them, and Stiles wastes no time picking it up.

 _You have awesome timing, Erica_ , Stiles thinks fervently as he picks up the call.  “Hey, you’re up early.”

 _“It’s ten, Stiles,”_ Erica volleys back playfully, but she actually sounds just as tired as he feels.  _“And I… didn’t feel like sleeping in.  If you’re up, do you want to hang out today?  Boyd too, of course.  He’s already on his way to my house.”_

Stiles seizes this opportunity.  “Sure, we can-”

“They can come too,” Peter cuts in, smirking when Stiles’ gaze snaps back to him.  “Cora’s invited you to lunch, remember?  I’m sure she wouldn’t mind seeing her fellow prisoners again as well.”

 _“Who was that?”_   Erica asks warily even as Stiles scowls at the man.  _“Stiles?  Are you okay?”_

“I’m fine,” Stiles grits out.  “That was Peter, Derek’s uncle?  I don’t think you’ve ever met.  He came over a little while ago.  Something about lunch.”

“I insist,” Peter insists.  “And you don’t want to hurt Cora’s feelings by turning her down, do you?”

Stiles gives the werewolf a look that clearly conveys how many fucks he does not give about Cora’s feelings.  Peter just looks amused and not at all offended on his niece’s behalf.

 _“We don’t mind,”_ Erica pipes up.

“Uh, yeah, we _do_ mind,” Stiles argues, almost pulling the phone away from his ear just to stare at it and emphasize his incredulity.  “We mind very much.”

 _“Come on, Stiles, why not?”_   Erica coaxes.  _“We actually did get to know Cora a little bit back in that vault.  Hard not to, all things considered.  It could be nice to see her again.”_

This time, Stiles does pull the phone away from his ear, drilling suspicious holes into it because he isn’t deaf and he can hear the bite in Erica’s voice just fine.  He doesn’t think she – or Boyd – has any particular issues against Cora but, all the same, there’s a terse underscore of temper that belies her enthusiasm for the lunch invite.

He puts the phone back to his ear.  “Erica,” He warns, and he doesn’t really have to say anything else.

There’s a moment of silence on the other end.  _“I’d like to go,”_ Erica says at last, less caustic but infinitely more… something else.  Like going to this lunch is a necessity for her.

Stiles stares at the far wall for a long second before heaving a sigh and raking a hand through his hair.  “Yeah, alright.”  He slants a glare over at Peter, who’s no longer smirking but is instead watching him with far more calculation than before, which is arguably worse.  “We’ll come, but I’m picking up Erica and Boyd first.  We’ll be at your place around noon.”

To his credit, Peter doesn’t push his luck.  Instead, he nods his head, sets the cheque down on the windowsill, and – after another careless smirk at Stiles but an assessing scan of the room - leaps back down to flat ground and presumably heads home.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  Oh yes, just jump up and down from Stiles’ window in broad daylight right smack in the middle of the front yard.  Werewolves.  No subtlety whatsoever.

“I’ll come pick you two up at around eleven-thirty,” He tells Erica briskly.

There’s a smile in Erica’s voice when she replies.  _“Thanks, Stiles.  We’ll be ready.”_

Yes, ready.  Stiles hangs up and lets his eyes drift up to where Laura is hovering, uncharacteristically silent.

But ready for what?

“I think you handled that pretty well,” Laura chirps.

Stiles nails her with a blistering glare and stalks for his bathroom.  So much for sleeping in.

 

* * *

 

“We weren’t properly introduced last time,” Stiles breaks the silence first once everyone is crowded inside Peter’s kitchen.  “I’m Stiles Stilinski.  Sheriff’s son.  Very human.  Still amazing.”

Cora snorts with amusement.  They don’t shake hands, but Stiles knows enough about werewolves these days to not go for one anyway. 

“I’m Cora,” She offers in return, flicking a glance behind him at Erica and Boyd before focusing solely on him.  She smirks and it looks like Peter’s.  “I like your fashion sense.”

Stiles shrugs, though he does take in the casual blouse and jeans she’s currently wearing with an appreciative eye.  Laura knows her stuff.  She did mention she wanted to be a fashion designer before… well, before.

“She’s grown up so gorgeous, don’t you think?”  Laura’s currently beaming, swooping around Cora proudly.

Stiles suppresses the urge to roll her eyes, motioning instead to the two werewolves behind him.  “Erica and Boyd, as I’m sure you already know.  And that’s Peter.  I set him on fire once.”

He smiles winningly at Peter, who flashes a glimpse of teeth even as his lips pull back in an answering smirk that’s equal parts threat, mirth, and challenge.

Cora looks between them, eyebrows raised.

“The UST here could choke a man,” Laura mutters from the air, and Stiles twitches violently in her direction before firmly tamping down on the urge to commit murder.  Or at least an exorcism.

Cora gives him a weird look, and he can sense mild confusion coming from behind him, but it’s Peter who zeroes in on him like a homing beacon, gaze flicking from Stiles to the patch of air Laura is occupying and then back to Stiles.

Stiles takes a deep breath, claps his hands together, and asks in as upbeat a tone as he can vocally manage, “So what’s for lunch?”

Fucking _Hales_.

 

* * *

 

Things settle down a little after that, mostly because Laura gets bored halfway through lunch and swoops away in search of something else to poke her nose into.  After that, they settle down with Peter’s disconcertingly large collection of video games – everything from Call of Duty to MGS to Super Smash Bros., from a GameCube to a Wii – in the sitting room.

Boyd and Cora seem okay with each other, though that could be because Boyd is a generally stoic individual and can’t be bothered to carry on a conversation with Cora beyond yes, no, and a handful of short sentences, all while looking like a very zen black mamba when staring at Cora.

Cora always stares back, and they never look away unless it’s at the same time.

Erica and Cora on the other hand… well.  First they snipe at each other over the food – which Cora apparently helped cook – then they take underhanded snide jabs at each other the way only girls can, then they move on to the video games and try to kill each other there, both of them flashing gold eyes and fanged snarls.

And here Stiles thought they would get along.  Erica’s a firecracker, with a penchant for mischief and an impulsive temperament.  Cora – from what Stiles has seen – isn’t that different.  In fact, she actually reminds him of a less… cynical version of her uncle.  She snarks on equal footing with Erica, and her sarcasm cuts… well, not as deeply as Peter’s or Stiles’ but she still wields it with scathing proficiency.

And it just seems as if she and Erica would click, but maybe it’s just that they’re too similar.  Still, on occasion, in the middle of trading barbs back and forth, they even seem to be having fun, and half the time it’s like they’re insulting each other because they _have to_.

 _Girls_.  Maybe it’s just one of those things Stiles will never understand.

At least they’re not going for each other’s throats though, and Stiles only has to step in three times – twice with sharp looks for both of them to _cut it out_ when Erica takes a pot-shot at Cora’s lack of family, and Cora hits below the belt by bringing up Erica’s old insecurities about being a _nobody_ , and then once more with a harsh “calm the fuck down, you two aren’t _actual_ wolves” when they bust out their claws that one time, looking ready to throw down.

Boyd stays largely out of it but three guesses to which side he’d take if a fight actually broke out, and Stiles _so_ does not want to deal with that.

Shooting at each other on Peter’s flat screen at least seems to channel their one-upmanship into the game instead of directly at each other.  Even Peter takes turns playing, very smugly kicking all their asses because he’s apparently terrifyingly good at any game they choose, and proving once and for all that he’s a giant nerd underneath the sociopath routine.  Not that he isn’t a sociopath too but still.  Stiles doesn’t know whether to be horrified or amused.

It’s a few hours since lunch, and they’re relaxing with chips and Mario Party 8, and even Erica and Cora have simmered down a bit, when Laura pops back in.  It’s a testament to how used to this Stiles is that his heart stays rock-steady.

“Stiles,” Laura mutters urgently without her usual good cheer.  “You have company.  Those Alpha twins are lurking outside the apartment.  They’re in the parking lot, not really doing anything, but they know which suite you’re all holed up in.  Attacking now would be stupid but they might once it gets dark and you and Boyd and Erica are gone.  Two Alphas against two Omegas is a joke.”

Stiles finishes shooting Boos in the haunted house, coming in second after Erica, who throws her arms in the air and crows triumphantly before growling at Cora who – coming in third – makes a disparaging remark under her breath.

“Here,” Stiles tosses the Wii remote over to Peter before getting to his feet.

Boyd looks over, straightening like he’s about to get up too, and Erica immediately forgets Cora in favour of concentrating on Stiles.  “Stiles?  Did you want to go?”

“Nah,” Stiles stretches the kinks out of his muscles before grabbing the sweater he shucked off earlier.  “I just wanna stretch my legs.  Maybe buy a cup of coffee down the street.  I’ll be back.  Half an hour tops.”

Erica still looks distinctly unsettled so Stiles reaches over to squeeze her shoulder in reassurance before nodding at Boyd.  Erica settles under his hand, and Boyd surreptitiously scoots an inch closer to Erica.  Stiles glances at Cora next, then Peter, and then he heads for the door.  Peter isn’t stupid enough to randomly cause any harm to Boyd or Erica.

“They’ve retreated around the corner,” Laura reports as they hit the parking lot and make for Stiles’ jeep.  “They can’t see you but they’ve probably got a bead on your scent and heartbeat.”

Stiles hums noncommittally as he slides behind the wheel.  He supposes he isn’t exactly stretching his legs but he can always do that when he goes to buy his coffee.  Right now, he needs his car.

He drives to the coffee shop down the street, slowly but not so slowly that it's suspicious.  Once in a while, he catches a glimpse of a figure in his rear-view mirror, skulking a distance away behind them but steadily tracking them all the same.

“I think it’s Aiden,” Laura’s muffled voice tells him from where she’s half-in half-out of the car, everything waist-up sticking out of the roof.  “His brother stayed behind.”

Even better.  Stiles reaches over into the cup holder compartment, unscrewing the lid of the travel mug before tipping the whole thing onto the floor.

He parks, in front of the alley adjacent to the coffee shop.  As he steps out of his car, nobody notices the dark trail of mountain ash that follows his sneakers out like the silent sinuous glide of a snake, only to curl up under the jeep, waiting for Stiles’ next command.

“Laura,” Stiles murmurs, glancing up only long enough to see her nod at him.  Then he heads inside.  He _does_ want a drink.  Maybe a caramel mocha.  It’s that kind of day.

“Han Solo,” He tells the cashier when she asks for his name, grinning cheekily when she laughs and gamely scribbles it down.

He waits the two minutes it takes for his drink to come out, toasts the girl who calls out “Han Solo!” for the whole shop to hear, and then makes his way out the back door instead of the front, sipping blissfully at his coffee.

Laura appears the moment he steps outside, already phasing herself into his body to mute both scent and sound, and when they turn into the alleyway next to the coffee shop, Aiden’s unprotected back faces them, the werewolf himself lurking in the shadows as he waits for Stiles to come out.

Stiles kicks a stray tin can.  Aiden spins around, claws already popping out, clearly startled.

Stiles smiles.

Aiden lunges, only to slam into the invisible barrier made by the circle of mountain ash around his feet, and before he can do more than snarl with anger and rising fear, Stiles is already darting forward, taser in hand, and the werewolf hits the ground in a convulsing heap of limbs.

A sharp kick to the head knocks him the rest the way out, and Stiles takes another gulp of his coffee to congratulate himself.

“Nice,” Laura agrees appreciatively, letting Stiles go to take a closer look at the unconscious Alpha.  “What an idiot.  You’d think he’d have learned his lesson after you sicced that wolfsbane spray on him at school.”

Stiles shrugs.  “Some people never learn.”  He sighs, strolling for his jeep, the rustling sound of mountain ash at his heels.  When he opens the driver’s door, it rears up and winds its way inside again now that its job is done.

“You’re getting really good with that,” Laura remarks as Stiles sticks his mocha into an empty cup holder.

“Obviously,” Stiles mutters, wandering back over to Aiden to crouch down beside the guy.  “Now if only I could get that good with runes.”

“You’re already miles ahead of where most other people would be at your age,” Laura says with a roll of her eyes.  “Do you think it’s _normal_ for someone to pick up runework and wards the way you have?”

Stiles just grunts and pulls out a Swiss army knife, cutting his finger open before swiftly painting the necessary runes on a patch of Aiden’s skin for disguising both scent and heartbeat.  And then he heaves the werewolf up and proceeds to drag him out of the alleyway and into the back of his jeep after making sure no one’s looking their way.

“Normal or not, I would _like_ to be able to do runework without cutting myself open all the time,” Stiles retorts as he finally climbs back into his car, sucking on his finger to soothe the sting.

“You could use ink,” Laura reminds him, not for the first time.

“Do I look like the kinda guy who carries an inkpot and brush around with me all the time?”  Stiles snorts, pulling away from the curb.  “Besides, you said so yourself – ink’s not as strong as blood, and blood’s not as strong as raw magic.  _That’s_ what I want.”

“Ambitious little brat,” Laura huffs, but she almost sounds fond.

Stiles doesn’t reply.  Laura is many things – and most of them get on Stiles’ nerves – but she also inherited quite a few books as heir apparent, and she’s perfectly willing to pass on everything she’s learned to Stiles.  When she was alive, she didn’t know how to raise wards or spell runes into existence, probably wouldn’t have even been able to the way Stiles can because she isn’t a Spark, but she _read_ about them, and whatever she remembers, she’s been telling Stiles, and Stiles has always been the figure-it-out-himself sort.  The guidelines Laura can give him are just icing on the cake.  And just like icing, Stiles eats it, and then goes and bakes his own cake, so to speak.  He’s never been one to follow rules after all.

They make it back to Peter’s apartment, well within half an hour.  Stiles waits until Laura gives him the go-ahead before heaving Aiden out and towing him up the stairwell, not at all concerned about the way the werewolf’s shins will probably have lingering bruises by the end of this.

The door opens even before Stiles reaches it, and Peter sticks his head out.  Stiles sniggers around his drink as he watches the man’s smirk falter with shock at the sight of Stiles’ plus one.

“Stretching your legs, was it?”  Peter drawls at last, but he lets Stiles in without protest, carelessly using one foot to shove the rest of Aiden inside when the unconscious teen’s belt buckle gets caught on the doorstep.

“What can I say,” Stiles deadpans, dropping the werewolf and ignoring the way Aiden’s head smacks against the hardwood floor.  “It’s the Stilinski charm.”

“Stiles?”  Erica appears in the kitchen, mouth dropping open when she catches sight of Aiden.  “Oh my god what- Is that Aiden or Ethan?”

“Aiden,” Stiles says just as Boyd pops in as well, eyes flashing gold briefly when he too spots the Alpha werewolf in their midst.

“Was he following you?”  Boyd rumbles, cutting to the chase just as Cora enters as well, stiffening immediately when _she_ sees Aiden.

“To the coffee shop, yeah,” Stiles sighs again, knocks back another mouthful of coffee, and then puts that on that counter before stooping down, grabbing Aiden, and hauling him into the nearest chair.  He eyes the werewolf thoughtfully for a moment before fishing out his knife again, slicing open another finger, and quickly drawing a paralysis rune on Aiden’s collarbone before smudging out the former ones.  He smiles a little to himself when Aiden goes rigid in the seat even as his head lolls.

He steps back and shakes out his hand a little.  God, he can’t wait to figure out that healing spell thing that Laura mentioned.  She couldn’t really tell him more than the fact that it exists but Stiles is used to that anyway.  He’ll dig up the how-to bit sooner or later.

“Boyd, Erica,” He turns to the two werewolves, still smiling, but even he can tell it takes on a faintly nasty edge.  “Mind going outside and fetching his brother?  You can tell him he has two minutes to come in with you guys without kicking up a fuss or Aiden here is gonna end up very dead in very short order.”

Erica’s grin is positively feral.  Boyd’s expression doesn’t change but his eyes are gold again, and this time they stay gold as he prowls for the door, radiating an aura that reminds Stiles of the unknown depths of a river in the middle of a storm.  Erica saunters after him, claws already flexing.

Stiles turns back to Aiden.  “Wakey, wakey,” He pokes the werewolf in the forehead and _focuses_ what he wants into the tip of his finger.

Aiden’s head snaps back.  It looks pretty painful considering nothing below his neck can move with the sudden motion, and the werewolf ends up cracking his head against the back of his chair, eyes rolling, before groaning in pain.

Then he sees Stiles, and he abruptly shuts up despite his eyes scrunching against a headache.  Still, he bares his fangs, neck muscles standing out starkly as he tries to move the rest of his body.  “You!  You _bastard!_   I’m gonna rip your spleen out when I get my hands on you!”

Stiles cocks his head.  “Well that’s not very nice.  I’m not the one who was playing stalker all day-” He pauses when the door swings open.  “-with your brother.”

“Aiden!”  Ethan surges forward the moment he catches sight of his brother, only to freeze when Boyd’s grip on the back of his neck tightens, claws already drawing rivulets of blood that seep into Ethan’s clothes.

“Now, now,” Erica purrs as she slips in as well and closes the door behind her.  “What did we say about any fast movements?”

“You crazy son of a bitch!”  Aiden snarls at Stiles, face turning red as he continues straining against the rune.  “Let him go!”

“You know, this name-calling is really hypocritical of you,” Stiles remarks.  “We’re not the ones who kidnapped a bunch of teenagers and tortured them for fun all damn summer.  And that’s not counting this one-sided guerilla warfare you and your pack is waging practically in my backyard.  You don’t see me calling you crazy.”

A muscle jumps in Aiden’s jaw.  In his peripheral vision, Ethan twitches like he wants to attack but doesn’t dare considering Boyd’s claws are so close to his spine.

“Right then,” Stiles says into the blessed silence.  “Ready to cooperate?”

If looks could kill, Stiles would be six feet under.

“What do you want?”  Aiden spits out.

Stiles scoffs.  “What do you think I want?  I want to know what _you_ want.  You, and your brother, and Ennis, and Kali, and Deucalion.  You took what you assumed were Derek’s Betas.  Kept them in a vault made of hecatolite so they’d turn feral.  And then what?  Derek would have to kill them?”

He glances at Ethan, then back to Aiden.  “Kill his own pack?  I hear that’s how the Alpha Pack functions.  Kill your own pack, then you can join up with Deucalion.  The thing is, I don’t buy it.  Why would you want Derek?  He’s not much of an Alpha but he wouldn’t kill people just because.  And forcing him to kill his packmates won’t do anything but break him.  He’d never join up with you.  So I’m asking again,” Stiles leans forward.  “What do you want?”

For a long, tense minute, neither twin speaks.  Stiles scratches idly at some of the blood that’s dripped down to from the newest cut on his hand.  It’s still bleeding, he notes, so he might as well.

“Hey-” Aiden jerks his head in Stiles’ direction but he can’t do much else as Stiles etches the same paralysis rune onto Ethan’s almost quivering neck.

He nods at Boyd once he’s done, and the teen relinquishes his grip on Ethan, who crashes to the ground like a statue, cursing into the kitchen floor.

“Cool,” Erica comments, nudging none too gently at Ethan’s prone form.

“Start talking,” Stiles makes a long arm and snags his coffee from the counter.  At least it’s still warm.  “I don’t care who.”

“And if we don’t?”  Aiden sneers.

Stiles blinks perplexedly at him.  “Then you’re essentially useless to me and I guess I’ll be wasting the rest of my afternoon digging a very deep hole.”

Aiden sort of stares.  Stiles wonders why he’s so surprised.

“I have shovels in my garage,” Boyd supplies offhandedly, arms crossed and staring down Aiden from over Stiles’ shoulder.

Erica snickers.

They’re both a lot more bloodthirsty than Stiles expected.  Then again, talking is easier than doing.

Aiden’s eyes bleed red, and his expression twisting with contempt.  “You’re _bluffing_.”

Stiles takes one more sip before putting his drink back on the counter.  And then he snaps his fingers.

A heartbeat later, Aiden is roaring, fangs snapping as his head tosses from side to side, crimson eyes wild as he shouts, “You bastard!  My brother!  I’ll kill you!  I’ll _kill you!_   Ethan!  Ethan-”

“Aiden?”  Ethan calls back from the floor.  “What’s going on?  What’ve you people done?  Aiden?!”

Stiles lets that go on for a few seconds before yanking Aiden’s head back by the hair to get his attention and snapping, “ _Start talking_.  Otherwise, you can say goodbye to your brother.  I can still heal him, but at this rate…”

“Alright!  _Alright!_ ”  Aiden’s voice is frantic, and he doesn’t hear Ethan yelling back, “Heal- Heal _me?_   What?  Aiden-”

“Deucalion wants McCall!”  Aiden gasps out, words almost tumbling over each other.  “’Cause he’s a- he’s a True Alpha, and that’s- Deucalion wants that in his Pack.  I don’t- I don’t know the exact plan, I _don’t_ , but- but having Derek take out his own Pack will turn him against McCall and weaken all of you more, and that’s what Deucalion wants.  He’ll eliminate all of you or he’ll get McCall to join him in exchange for sparing the rest of you, and that’s all I know I _swear_ , Deucalion doesn’t tell us everything, me and Ethan are the lowest on the totem pole so _I don’t know anything else_ now save my brother _you promised_ -”

Stiles snaps his fingers once more, and Aiden’s eyes – wide and unfocused from staring at something none of the rest of them can see – finally snap back into focus again even as his chest heaves with choked-off whines of dizzying emotion, and Stiles releases his grip on the werewolf’s hair.

Aiden isn’t capable of shaking but his expression shudders all the same, like he can’t believe his eyes when he spots his brother still face down on the floor.  “W- What-?   Ethan- You slit his throat!  I saw-”

“Magic is a wonderful thing,” Stiles clarifies, and then thinks _sleep_ , and Aiden’s head slumps forward, limp.

“Aiden?”  Ethan keeps trying to lift his head.  “Aiden?  What have you done to him?!”

“Well, he isn’t dead yet,” Stiles assures helpfully, and then promptly whips out his taser and jabs it into Ethan’s ribs.  A kick to his head when the werewolf practically vibrates with the volts and he too is out like a light.

Stiles blows out a breath and pockets his taser.  Then he turns to face everyone else.

“Where can I get one of those?”  Erica is the first to jump in, looking almost gleeful at the thought of a taser.  Boyd just looks mildly amused but he seems equally interested.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “I’ll get you one each.”

“What did you _do_ to him?”  Cora interjects, and everything from her voice to her expression is guarded but not like she’s horrified or anything.  Instead, she looks at Stiles like she’s re-evaluating him.

Stiles wiggles the fingers of one hand.  “Magic.”  At Cora’s unimpressed eyebrows, he huffs a laugh and shrugs.  “I poked him on the forehead, remember?  It’s sort of like… slipping a bit of my magic into his brain.”

“So it’s mind-control,” Cora concludes.

Stiles frowns.  “Sort of?  I guess you could call it that.  But he’s still himself until I want my magic to feed his brain illusions or make him go to sleep.”

“But only one at a time, or you would’ve done it to his brother as well instead of physically knocking him out,” Peter speaks at last, voice as smooth as an unseen dagger in the back, and he looks at Stiles like… like he wants to _eat_ him.

Stiles stares straight back.  “For now.”

Peter smiles, an unsettling sort of fascination in every contour of his face.  “Oh I don’t doubt that in the least,” His smile widens, and he practically _licks_ out the last word, “ _Stiles_.”

From the ceiling, practically forgotten at this point, Laura pointedly clears her throat.

Stiles’ lips thin.  He doesn’t even blink until Peter chuckles and inclines his head like- like _acknowledgement_ before glancing away first, averting his eyes to the twins.

“Whatever shall we do with them then?  If we let them go, they’ll run straight back to Deucalion.”

Stiles looks over at Boyd and Erica.  “Wanna kill them?  I could do it if you don’t want to.  Otherwise, I’ll wipe Aiden’s memories first, and we’ll keep them both until I can recharge and do the same with Ethan.  Up to you.”  He glances at Cora.  “And you I guess.”

All three werewolves stare at him.

“You really _would_ ,” Erica says at last, and there’s an odd inflection in her voice that Stiles can’t place.  “Kill them, I mean.”

“Well, I figure they’ve hurt you most so you get first say,” Stiles squints at her.  “Now what’s it gonna be?”

Erica looks at him like he didn’t quite address what she meant, but she exchanges a look with Boyd, and then they both look at Cora.

“Let them go,” Boyd finally says.  “When we were locked up, it was mostly Deucalion, Kali, and Ennis who… well.  We didn’t really see much of the twins, and they’re our age.”

“But if they try anything again,” Erica adds with a flash of her fangs.  “I get first dibs.”

Stiles glances at Cora, who nods with a grimace but looks firm enough about the decision, so he nods back and turns to Aiden again.  “Right then.  One obliviate coming right up.”

Even Boyd cracks an exasperated smile.  And Stiles does love it when people understand his references.

 

* * *

 

They end up staying for dinner.  Peter cooks while the rest of them sprawl out in the living room with their homework.  Or – in Cora’s case – a book.  But Stiles does excuse himself eventually for a bathroom break.

“So?”  He asks as he washes his hands.  “What’s a True Alpha?”

Laura seats herself on the counter.  She has no reflection.

“Something rare,” She tells him with something like awe and something like bewilderment.  “Once in a hundred years rare.  A werewolf who becomes Alpha through sheer force of will because they have the overwhelming potential for it, based on the strength and purity of their character.  Or so the stories go.  I’ve never met one, obviously.”

Stiles mulls this over, absently playing with the soap, and then snorts.  “Well, I suppose if anyone is ‘pure’ in this town, it’d be Scott.  And you can’t have a stronger moral compass than him.”  He glances sharply at Laura.  “You should already know that though, from what you’ve seen of Scott.  So why are you confused?”

For once, Laura doesn’t jump guiltily or lie atrociously or even pout in an attempt to deflect Stiles’ attention.  Instead, she looks back, expression unreadable, and the silence between them lasts long enough for Stiles to consider dropping the issue.

“ _Potential_ means nothing in reality,” She says at last.  “Potential is just a possibility.  And possibilities are a dime a dozen.  Packs don’t need maybes.  They need _competency_.”

Stiles blinks at her.  “I don’t get it.”

Laura smiles, and for a moment, she looks wise beyond her years.  “You will.  But Scott won’t.  Not the way he is.”

And then she swoops up through the ceiling and away, effectively ending the conversation.

Stiles stares after her for a moment before turning off the taps and drying his hands.

He doesn’t know what she means, but all the same, something tugs in his gut, like anticipation and dread and the weight of responsibility.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	35. Venom Ridge (Pt.6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans begin to line up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Fluff, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles, Dark Peter, Implied Torture, Pack Dynamics

 

Stiles doesn’t hear from Scott. He thinks maybe his best friend is hoping Stiles will stay mad and therefore stay away from the supernatural.

Scott has never been accused of being overly logical.

But without outside distractions, Stiles can concentrate on the Alpha Pack with Peter. They narrow down the potential hideouts to three buildings, all of which have walls made out of moonstone. One is a coffee shop of all things, small but popular in its own way. Another is a church, open for service every day. The last is Beacon Hills First National Bank, closed down and abandoned, and Stiles knows instantly that the Alpha Pack is hiding there.

“So what do we do now?” Stiles asks once they have the blueprints of the bank spread out in front of them in Peter’s living room.

“Well, we won’t be playing heroes, that’s for certain,” Peter mutters around his tea, gaze intent on the blueprints, probably memorizing all the exits.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Obviously. We could smoke them out with wolfsbane? I’m sure I can figure out a gas form of some sort.”

Peter only hums noncommittally. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he finally looks up, his eyes have gone sharp and electric, vaguely reminiscent of when he had Stiles trapped between his body and the trunk of his nurse’s car, determined to get what he wanted and refusing to take no for an answer.

Stiles frowns. “What?”

Peter stares unblinkingly at him. “…Whether we run the Alpha Pack out of town or deal with them in a more permanent manner, I’m killing at least one of them, Stiles.”

Stiles cocks his head, frown deepening. “So you can be Alpha again. Well yeah. And?”

This time, Peter does blink, owlish and much less intense. Stiles levels a flat look on him. “Did you think I  _didn’t_  think you’d want to get in on that when a bunch of Alphas are practically paraded in front of you? How else are you gonna become an Alpha again? I mean, that’s what you want, right? And the timing can’t be more perfect.”

Peter blinks again. And then he chuckles, apparently unbearably amused. “And this is why I like you, Stiles.”

Stiles squints dubiously at him. “Because I’m not an idiot?”

Peter, still smiling, just shakes his head and looks back down at the blueprints. “We should do some surveillance on the place first, I think.”

Stiles studies the werewolf for a moment longer before giving a mental shrug and returning his focus onto the matter at hand. He grins and reaches for his laptop. “Way ahead of you. The security feeds inside the bank have all obviously been taken down but there’s a traffic cam just down the street, and a CCTV camera that has a partial view of the back. I still gotta hack into them, but at least we won’t have to wander back and forth in front of the bank hoping for a glimpse of the Alpha Pack and probably doing the equivalent of waving a bright neon sign in the air declaring our intentions.”

Peter snorts but nods. “At the very least, we need to find out how many Alphas there are, and whether or not they brought their own emissary with them. Capturing one alive and finding out what they want would be ideal as well.”

It’s as good a plan as they can come up with right now. Stiles starts on the necessary law-breaking this latest venture is going to need. Peter folds up the blueprints, grabs  _his_  laptop, and begins researching all the people who have recently moved into Beacon Hills on the off-chance the Alpha Pack’s hypothetical emissary is still walking a relatively legal line and therefore will actually register as a citizen of Beacon Hills instead of living the life of a fugitive.

 

* * *

 

In the end, things go down even easier than either of them expected, mostly because Deucalion starts sending out his people to – presumably – observe and spook the various members of Derek’s Pack, and somehow, the man gets the idea that Stiles is one of them.

It starts on a Saturday, when Stiles is on his way home from the supermarket.  He steps out of the store, and there’s a pair of twins leaning cockily against their motorcycles across the street, staring straight at Stiles with Alpha red eyes and smirking arrogantly in a way that says they’re trying to be threatening.

Stiles snorts and heads home.  He also neatly sidesteps the spray of gravel that the twins kick up with their motorcycles as they roar by.  As far as intimidation tactics go, it’s pretty weak, and Stiles can’t help rolling his eyes at their backs.

He gets to Peter’s apartment and tells Peter all about it as he stores the groceries away.  Peter doesn’t look all that pleased, and his hands clench like he wants to bury his claws into these Alphas, but even he scoffs when he hears about how much blatant dick-waving they were doing, and in the middle of public too.

“So they’re following you around now?”  Peter muses thoughtfully.

“I guess,” Stiles shrugs, wandering over to plop himself down on Peter’s lap.  The werewolf’s hands automatically come up to cradle his hips.  “And they wouldn’t follow me around without following the others.  Probably trying to scare us.”

Peter hums, blue eyes gleaming.  “Well, if they want to follow _you_ so badly…”

Stiles cocks an eyebrow.  “What are you thinking, wolf?”

Peter smirks.  “I’m thinking Venom Ridge has a lot of wolfsbane.”

Stiles blinks.  Then he grins.

 

* * *

 

They don’t need to smoke the Alpha werewolves out after all.  In fact, they don’t even need to go anywhere near the bank.  Instead, all Stiles has to do is pick a day when the twins, Ethan and Aiden apparently, orphans and the murderers of their old pack, are tailing him again – and probably doing a passable job of remaining unseen this time if they weren’t also tailing a cop’s kid _and_ someone who’s been playing around with magic for the past six months – and then let them follow him up to Venom Ridge.

Venom Ridge, where every other plant in the vicinity is poisonous to werewolves.

Stiles makes the trek there, and on occasion, he does lose track of where the twins are, but as soon as he hits the three-quarter mark to the ridge, the plants rustle with an invisible breeze all around him, hostile and protective as the wards close around both Stiles and the two teenage Alphas, and Stiles lets the last of the tension in his shoulders.

They’re in his territory now.

He climbs up onto the ridge, where Peter is already waiting for him, pacing around the tent.  He arches an eyebrow as soon as Stiles steps into the clearing, and Stiles smirks back, sending silent permission to all the flora around him, and as one, they attack with single-minded intent.

Twin alarmed shouts echo across the ridge, heard by no one save Stiles and Peter.  Stiles cackles, bouncing on the balls of his feet even as Peter sweeps past him with a dark grin, tossing his clothes before shifting onto four legs and taking off in the direction of the panicked howling.

Honestly, like bees to honey.

It takes all of ten minutes for Peter to haul two incapacitated Alphas onto the ridge, both of whom are bound tight with thin branches of mountain ash and delicate stems of wolfsbane, reducing their movements to weak struggles and glaring.  And even the glares are dampened by the nauseous expressions they’re sporting.

Peter drags them right over to the cliff, dumping them terrifying close to the edge.  Some of the rock crumbles, and the twin on the left lets out a strangled noise of fear.

From there, well, it’s pretty easy to get the whole story out of them after that.  For a couple of Alphas who like to put on the tough guy act, strutting around as part of the big bad Alpha Pack, they don’t really live up to their reputation.

 

* * *

 

“So what now?”  Stiles asks once they’re finished wringing every last piece of information from the twins.  They’ve left the two Alphas by the cliff; if the wind tosses them over, well, it’s no skin off Stiles’ back, and Peter cares even less than he does.  “You gonna kill them?”

Peter looks thoughtful as he washes the blood from his hands.  “Actually, I was thinking we could kill two birds with one stone.  Saving Derek’s foolish pups isn’t a priority but if we could do it with minimum risk to us…”

He trails off but Stiles picks up where he’s going with this easily enough.  His gaze slides over to the open entrance of the tent.  He can’t see the twins from here but he can still hear them, wheezing laboriously after Peter methodically put the fear of God in them.

“So…” He turns back to Peter.  “Let one twin go and keep the other as hostage?”

“Well we wouldn’t want the one we let go to forget what he’s supposed to be doing,” Peter agrees with a distinctly nasty smirk.

Stiles matches it with a grin of his own.  “Let’s let Ethan go then.  He’s softer than Aiden.”

“I got that feeling too,” Peter nods, drying his hands.  “We’ll have him free Boyd and Erica before we release his twin.”

“Deucalion will realize he’s been betrayed, which would draw him out,” Stiles continues.  “We could even have Ethan run back this way, lead him to the ridge.”

“Before strongly advising him and his brother to leave town at their earliest convenience,” Peter finishes, hands flexing absently like they’re claw-tipped and embedded in flesh again.  “They’re still fairly young, the twins, and not the leaders of the Alpha Pack, so I suppose I wouldn’t be averse to letting them leave with their tails between their legs.  Deucalion’s the one who has the audacity to invade, and for reasons of his own making too.  Him, I have no qualms killing.”

“Or Kali, or Ennis,” Stiles reminds him.  “Or heck, all three.  But I doubt they’d _all_ go after the twins; one, maybe two, might follow, while whoever remains behind goes after Boyd and Erica.  Although considering the fact that I’ve only seen his henchmen around, Deucalion doesn’t seem the type to get his hands dirty until he has to.  He seems like the type to send out minions to do his work for him.”

Peter shrugs in concession of this point even as he ambles over to sit down on the nest of blankets beside Stiles.  Stiles automatically leans into the werewolf, always happy to take advantage of the walking furnace.  Peter huffs a breath of amusement, one arm curling around Stiles’ shoulders.

“Will you be their getaway driver?”  Peter enquires after a moment of comfortable silence.

“Boyd and Erica’s?”  Stiles scoffs.  “Of course n-” He stops.  Forces himself to really think about it.  “…Well, do you want them… in your pack?  I mean if you do, I suppose I’d have to-”

“ _Our_ Pack,” Peter corrects in a mild tone of voice, but there’s steel underneath it that brooks no argument.  “ _Our_ Pack, Stiles.  You get just as much say about this as I do.  I don’t know Boyd and Erica.  All I know about them is that Derek chose them, and in my opinion, that’s already a strike against them.  That they deserted him when things went to hell is another strike, although I suppose Derek takes a good chunk of the fault there.  Either way, it’s clear you’re uncomfortable with them, so,” He catches Stiles’ eye, his gaze steady.  “No, I don’t want them in my Pack.  Once I’m Alpha, I can always offer the Bite to someone else.  Someone that we’ll both have vetted, someone we’ll both like.  Honestly, that’s usually how it’s done.  Talia didn’t go out of her way to turn outsiders – ours was a very family-oriented pack – but if we did, for whatever reason, the procedure for it would be to approach the target, befriend them, get to know them, see if they seem open to the idea of the supernatural world, make sure they get along with _everyone_ in the pack, make sure they want to be _Pack_ before _werewolf_ because you don’t need to be a wolf to be Pack, and Pack is always more important, and _then_ we would make the offer, along with explaining all the pros and cons and laws and responsibilities that would come with the Bite.  We’d even have our emissary on standby in case they don’t take the reveal well and we have to wipe their memories, with _out_ leaving Alpha claw marks on the back of their neck.  If I had been in my right mind, I would never have Bitten Scott the way I did.  And Derek should never have gone anywhere near those three kids he turned without letting them know exactly what they would be getting into, because clearly, they were nowhere near prepared.  I doubt they even had a real pack bond with their Alpha to begin with if they could leave him so easily, and Derek showed no ill-effects either.  If they had been a real pack, then having a packmate leave because of your own incompetency, because you know you’ve failed them somehow, enough that they want to take their chances as _omegas_ -” Peter shakes his head.  “-it should’ve been akin to cutting off your own arm.  I know what that looks like on a wolf, what it smells like, what it _feels_ like, and Derek didn’t feel a thing aside from a drop in his power levels and perhaps a sense of betrayal.  He’s an Alpha with… what, half a Beta now?  And even that’s debateable.”

He falls silent, thumb rubbing absently along the line of Stiles’ jaw as Stiles digests this new information with something like fascination.  Books are well and dandy but sometimes, hearing things directly from the source makes it that much more real.

“We’ll free the pups because we can,” Peter speaks once more.  “Because you seem to want to do at least that much for your classmates, because it aligns with our own plans, and because for all that Derek means very little to me these days, he is still my nephew.  But Boyd and Erica are his concerns, not ours.  I refuse to take responsibility for his mistakes any more than we will be, especially when they treated you so poorly, just because they could.”

Stiles is quiet for a long minute, and then he tilts his head back to peer up at Peter.

Peter blinks.  “What?”

“…Nothing,” Which isn’t exactly true.  Isn’t at all true.  But Stiles doesn’t know how to say it out loud, how to tell Peter Hale that he is quite possibly the first person in Stiles’ entire life since before his mother went crazy who has put Stiles first, who considers Stiles’ opinions and wishes more important than anyone else’s, who’d even rather start over from scratch than allow entry of two ready-made werewolves who would probably prove loyal if Peter reveals exactly who saved them, _all because Stiles doesn’t want them there_.

Stiles doesn’t quite know how to say any of that, and so he doesn’t say anything at all in the end.  But he does reach up to scent Peter, thorough and deliberate, gliding their cheeks together and pressing his face into the crook of the werewolf’s neck just to breathe him in.  Peter makes a wounded, desperate noise, a cross between a whimper and a growl, before strong hands lift him into Peter’s lap, and the werewolf proceeds to scent him in return with unmistakeable enthusiasm.

A lashing gust of wind whips by outside, followed by a frantic muffled cry that makes Stiles sigh and Peter frown in annoyance.

“Back to work then?”  Stiles mutters, reluctantly pulling away.  “Before Deucalion notices they’re missing.  I still need to do the runework on Ethan to make sure he doesn’t smell like us.  And he needs to heal before we send him back.”

“And explain exactly why it would be an incredibly stupid idea to run to Deucalion for help,” Peter adds with a slight curl to his lips.  “It would be a terrible shame if he got his brother killed because he didn’t believe we were the scarier monsters.”

Stiles snorts at that, idly adjusting his sweater.  It’s red, much to his amusement.  It’s always been his favourite.

“Who knew Little Red and the Big Bad Wolf,” He remarks.  “Would work so much better as a team?”

Peter laughs, a genuine sound that comes from the belly, his expression as fond as it is hungry when he looks at Stiles.  “I knew from the very beginning, sweetheart.  I knew the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“That you’d rather keep me than eat me?”  Stiles teases lightly, and then shudders when Peter leans in, head dipping to graze teeth and hot breath along the pale stretch of Stiles’ neck.

“And who says I can’t do both, darling boy?”  Peter purrs, sending a coil of heat straight to Stiles’ cock even as a blush somehow rises in his cheeks at the same time.

Well that just isn’t fair.  At least not without levelling the playing field a bit.  And Peter’s neck _is_ right there.

He has all of two seconds to _bite_ , and then the world flips, and Stiles is… well, still blushing, but he’s laughing somewhat breathlessly too as he stares up into the electric blue eyes of a very excited werewolf.

“You’re playing with fire, Stiles,” Peter growls, and the way he keeps their hips apart is understandably deliberate, even as his arms cage Stiles in, hands on either side of Stiles’ head.  “Especially since I don’t think you’re quite ready for what I want to do to you.”

Well, he isn’t wrong, but Stiles sends a cheeky grin at the werewolf anyway, flushed and pleased to have affected Peter so much.

Peter snorts, lifts a hand to scrub over his face, and then carefully lies down beside him instead of on top of him.

“Tease,” Peter says reproachfully, but the affection there can’t be faked, and all Stiles can do is turn his head to hide a smile against the werewolf’s shoulder.

He probably shouldn’t feel even half as safe or content as he does.

“We should get up,” Stiles whispers.

“In a minute,” Peter counters, and Stiles can’t bring himself to argue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	36. Dioskouroi (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles is… _Stiles_ , a little oblivious, a little mad, a little ruthless, and more than a little socially awkward, and Peter still finds him fascinating and charming in equal measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Spirit Animals, Preslash, Original Character(s), Fae  & Fairies

 

The first thing Peter does after rising from the dead is track down Stiles. Well no, the first thing he does is clean himself up and find a change of clothes. The ones he had on before he was burned alive are beyond saving, and he has no desire to keep the blackened tatters anyway. His gaze does linger on one torn sleeve, the serrated impressions of teeth – of  _fangs_  – still faintly visible.

Peter wants to  _know_.

He takes off after that, especially once he learns that Stiles is missing and everyone else seems more concerned about the giant lizard running around than actually figuring out what happened to Stiles. Honestly, just kill the kanima, problem solved. Toss another goddamn Molotov cocktail at it. Short of that, if it really is Jackson Whittemore, then find Lydia. Is Peter the only one around with any sort of sense in them?

Well, no again, there’s always Stiles, whom Peter starts tracking from the school where the boy apparently disappeared from. From there, he traces the hints of gun oil and wolfsbane and  _Stiles_  to the Argent house, and Peter can’t even bring himself to feel surprised. Furious, yes. Surprised, no. And hunters call werewolves monsters.

He isn’t there – hidden behind a crop of trees and trying to figure out a way to get Stiles out – for even five minutes before smoke begins seeping out from every open crack in the house it can find, and that’s followed by the sound of alarmed shouting almost immediately afterwards. And then a window in the basement is shattered, and two teenagers – halfway wolfed out and bloodied up, probably Derek’s wayward Betas – claw their way onto the front lawn with the same black smoke billowing out in their wake, and they smell of fear and panic and adrenaline, but they don’t hightail out of there right away either, remaining on the front lawn and shaking, probably from the aftereffects of the electricity used to immobilize them, yet peering back through the window all the same like they’re waiting for someone to follow them out.

“Go!” A familiar voice yells, muffled by walls and smoke and other even louder voices. “Just go! I’ll be fine! You two go home!”

The two teens exchange uncertain glances, and that’s when Peter lopes over, practically on top of them before they notice his presence.

They instantly round on him, flashing fangs and claws and looking about as threatening as newborn pups. Which they sort of are.

Peter suppresses the urge to snort, plastering on a sharp but passingly charming smile instead. “You must be Boyd and Erica. Derek’s told me about you.”

This at least makes them pause. They’re still cautious but they seem willing to listen.

Foolish.

“Derek sent me to help,” Peter adds smoothly even though his nephew did no such thing. In fact, he’s willing to bet Derek doesn’t even know his Betas were kidnapped.  “You’d best head on home for now. I’ll stay and make sure Stiles gets out.”

For a moment, it looks as if the two teenagers would argue, but then the sound of gunshots ring out, and apparently, after months of monsters and danger and a night of torture, this is the last straw. They both nod and slip away, limping into the shadows and – if they’re smart – heading home to lick their wounds.

Peter doesn’t watch them go. They clearly aren’t cut out for their world, and they’re not friends of Stiles, as far as he’s aware. He spent some time watching the boy, before, and his only friend seems to be Scott.

And that stuffed fox toy of his. That may not be so stuffed or much of a toy after all.

He turns his attention back to the broken window, just in time to see a pale hand appear, slicing itself open on glass but scrambling for purchase anyway. Peter sighs, bends down, and hauls the boy out by the arm, dragging him away from the smoking building. He doesn’t smell fire so he’s guessing smoke grenades.

Stiles tumbles out and falls into Peter with a yelp, wide-eyed when he catches sight of Peter but then twisting around and squinting back at the house instead.

“Pollux!” He cries out, urgent and already struggling against Peter’s grasp. “Pollux, hurry up!”

Peter doesn’t relinquish his grip on Stiles but he does slant a calculating look back at the Argent house as well.

He’s heard what people say about the Sheriff’s son. Crazy. Mentally challenged. A halfwit who won’t make it anywhere in life and should be medicated at the very least, if not locked up. Pitied by some, laughed at and bullied by most. All for carrying around a stuffed animal and talking to it because that’s something only a child should do.

Peter can admit, he thought the boy a bit strange too. Born with some mental illness perhaps. But he never once considered that to be equivalent to  _slow-witted_  or  _simple-minded_  or  _stupid_. Stiles taught Peter’s Beta enough control to allow him to play lacrosse and survive the full moon and resist Peter’s call when the little human only had guesswork and spotty research to draw aid from. He figured out the truth of the Hale fire before anyone else did, taunted a feral Alpha when anyone else would’ve run away long ago, and took zero shit from Peter’s emotionally stunted nephew, whose forms of communication seem to consist of eyebrows and violence and little else. He challenged Peter for his prey, and because Peter went after Scott, Stiles had no problem hurling liquid fire at Peter to put him down.

Stiles is clever and loyal, a wolf at heart, and  _magnificent_  in his own right, and Peter has no idea how no one else can see that. All they see is a boy with an imaginary best friend, and they condemn him for it.

“Lux!” Stiles hollers once more, and Peter finally lets the boy go when he follows Stiles’ line of sight and catches a glimpse of a shadow by the broken basement window. A shadow that definitely wasn’t there before.

Stiles dives forward and comes back with a familiar red fox in his arms. The hunter’s shouts have died down but Peter can still hear their heartbeats so they can’t be dead.

Pity.

He turns back to Stiles.  Who isn’t even looking at him anymore, facing the fox instead and scolding it sternly.  Pollux, was it?  He wonders how much he can read into that name.

“You can’t just _do_ that, Pollux!  You could die!  They could’ve killed you!”  He pauses, clearly listening to a voice only he could hear.  “That doesn’t matter!  Jesus, sometimes you’re so-” Another pause.  “I don’t _care_ whether they deserved to die or not!  Leaving a bunch of dead bodies-” Pause.  “The fact that they’re not dead is _not the point!_ ”  One more pause.  “Oh my god, _they should die because they hurt me_ is _not_ a good enough reason for murder!”

But that last bit succeeds in taking the wind out of Stiles’ sails, and when no further reproach is forthcoming, Peter politely clears his throat.

Stiles spins around, almost tripping over his own feet, and he stares at Peter like he’s seen a ghost.  Peter supposes it’s a reasonable enough reaction.

And then Stiles’ gaze snaps down to the fox.  “What do you _mean_ ‘you knew it’?!”  He cocks his head, eyebrows furrowing.  “Lydia can do that?”  He looks back at Peter.  “How did you even know she was a banshee?”

Peter’s eyebrows rise, eyes flicking from Stiles to the fox and back to Stiles.  “It’s easy enough for shifters if you know what a banshee smells like.  How do you know?”

Stiles shrugs, lifting the fox in his arms a bit.  “Pollux told me.”

Peter zeroes in on the fox.  “And how does Pollux know?”

Stiles blinks and says vaguely, “Pollux knows a lot of things.”  He glances down sharply and abruptly tightens his arms.  “Hey, _no_.  Foxes don’t even eat wolves, what are you talking about?”

Peter smirks a little tightly.  So the fox can hold a grudge.  Somehow, he’s not surprised.

Stiles is looking at him again, and now that the adrenaline is fading and the house half a dozen feet away isn’t smoking quite as badly anymore, the boy’s expression is several degrees warier.  Peter takes the moment to examine the scatter of purple-blue bruises – some of them split open and oozing sluggishly – adorning Stiles’ face.  There’s probably more under his clothes, especially with the way he’s holding himself, tucked in and stiff like he’s nursing fractured ribs, and one of his hands is still bleeding from the broken basement window, though he’s careful not to smudge it into the fox’s fur.

All in all, Peter actually wonders why the fox didn’t do _worse_ to the hunters.

Sirens wail in the distance, cutting the tension between them.  The Argent household is near the edge of town, away from the thickest core of civilization, but someone must have seen the smoke anyway and called 9-1-1.  Stiles jerks around, only to wince and hiss.  He shivers and cuddles the fox closer, and in that moment, he looks about ten years younger than he actually is.

“We should leave before the police arrives,” Peter suggests.  This earns him a narrow-eyed look, but the boy doesn’t argue.  He just starts walking, picks a direction and goes.  Peter inwardly shrugs and falls into step behind him.

Stiles’ arms lift high enough so that the fox can peer over his shoulder at Peter with its button black eyes.  Or… Peter squints.  It _looks_ like Stiles is lifting the fox all on his own, but since the fox is… sentient, then it would probably just clamber up onto Stiles’ shoulder by itself.

Probably.

Peter has seen some strange things in his life but nothing quite as strange as this.  Or at least not this brand of strange.  It’s clear that there’s magic involved here _some_ where, but is it coming from the supposed toy fox?  Or the boy?  Or both?  How did Stiles and Pollux even meet?

Peter wants to know.  It’s rare for him to come across a subject that he knows absolutely nothing about, hasn’t happened in years, and now that he has – and completely by accident too – he wants to find out more.  But he doubts Stiles will answer him just like that, and that fox of his would sooner rip out Peter’s throat than help him.  If Pollux can bite him, then Peter has no doubt it can probably kill him too, if given the opportunity.

So, first order of business – work himself into Stiles’ good graces.  Not that Peter wasn’t already planning on doing that, although before the whole dying bit of his life, he was planning on going back and persuading Stiles to become his Beta.  The boy refused the Bite – that fox of his won’t allow it anyway – and Peter didn’t have time to stick around right then, but one didn’t have to be a werewolf to be Pack.  And he _wanted_ Stiles, still wants him, wants that shrewd ingenuity and sassy wit for himself, madness and mystery and all.  He’s no longer an Alpha though so he’ll simply have to adjust his plans.  Something tells him Stiles wouldn’t have submitted anyway so perhaps it’s better this way, to get close to Stiles without being in a position of power over him, and also without his own feral insanity working against him.

He’ll have to take it slow, but he has all the time in the world now so it’s something he can certainly commit to.

“What are you even doing here?”  Stiles speaks up suddenly, turning so that he’s walking backwards and facing Peter.  The fox has been turned around too – or, Peter supposes, it turned itself around – so that its eyes remain fixed on Peter.  “Derek couldn’t have told you to come.  He didn’t know about this, and he probably wouldn’t care anyway unless he heard about Boyd and Erica too, and Lux says he didn’t.  So why are you here?”

Peter cocks his head.  “I heard you went missing from the lacrosse game, and since everyone else was occupied with the kanima, I thought I’d come find you.  Just in case.”

Something complicated dances across Stiles’ features, but he looks down at his fox for a long moment, and when he lifts his head again, his expression is schooled back to relative normal.

“Well, I’m fine,” Stiles says rather belatedly.  “I’m always fine.  I have Pollux.”  He stops awkwardly, like he was about to say more but doesn’t want to, and in the end, he falls silent again.  Seconds later, he even turns on his heel so that he’s facing forward again, padding down the dimly lit street like a lost little boy.  Yet at the same time, his shadow, coupled with the fox’s, cuts an ominous, almost imposing silhouette against the sidewalk.

Peter follows along behind, generously angled so that he’s hovering in Stiles’ peripheral vision and even pacing Pollux’s line of sight.

The rigid line of Stiles’ shoulders relaxes a notch.

Small steps.

 

* * *

 

“You should go to the hospital,” Pollux grumbles reproachfully.  “You’re _hurt_.”

“Not that hurt,” Stiles mutters back, a little distracted by Peter’s loping gait at the corner of his eye.

“He doesn’t smell like he wants to attack anyone right now,” Pollux assures, eyes darting between Stiles and the werewolf.  “And I don’t smell as much crazy on him anymore either.”

“You can’t smell crazy,” Stiles scoffs.

“Which one of us has the better nose?” Pollux counters rhetorically, tail thwapping Stiles on the thigh.

Stiles huffs but doesn’t argue, hugging Pollux a little closer when a chilly night breeze blows by.

“Hospital,” Pollux repeats sternly.

“I can’t,” Stiles shakes his head.  “Gerard’s gone to meet Scott, remember?  He was doing the whole evil supervillain monologue shtick and he told us.  So, you know.  _Nothing_ about that is going to turn out well, so I have to go make sure Scott will be okay.”

“That _boy_ ,” Pollux spits out like it’s a swearword.  “Is so busy panting after that hunter girl like some bitch in heat-”

“Pollux!”

“-even after she betrayed him and tried to kill him,” Pollux continues persistently.  “Tried to kill Derek, tried to kill those two other pups too, and delivered them straight into the hands of her psychotic grandfather.  She _condones_ the torture of two kids _her_ age, and I smelled her on them – who’s to say she didn’t participate too?  I certainly wouldn’t put it past her, not when I smelled her waiting upstairs while her dear grandfather was _torturing you_.  Now I don’t give a damn about those two pups, but it’s _galling_ that _your best friend_ would put a girl like that before _you_ , time and time again.  I haven’t forgotten how long he made you wait in that pool either.  You almost drowned while he sat down and ate dessert with a family that thinks torturing innocent people is fun.  And he has to know you went missing from the lacrosse game, so where is he?  You even told Gerard he’d come.  But he didn’t.  Even _Peter_ came but _Scott didn’t_.  Peter wasn’t lying when he said ‘everyone else’ is occupied with the kanima.  Scott would rather go after the kanima and probably try to save it just because the thing used to be Jackson – that brat who’s been bullying the two of you since you _met_ – than come save _you_.  And now you want to go save him because he decided to do something as stupid as partner up with a psychopath without even telling you?”

Stiles stares, more than a little stunned by the ferocity in Pollux’s voice, and it suddenly occurs to him that the fox is absolutely _furious_.

“I don’t expect a lot from humans,” Pollux says, black eyes simmering with rage.  “They’re generally an unreliable, backstabbing, shallow species overall.  Unlike foxes, oaths mean nothing to them.  Scott agreed to be your friend – that’s an oath right there, a promise that at the very least, he should be as loyal to you as you are to him.  That isn’t too high an expectation, is it?  And if it is, then he’s clearly not worthy of _your_ loyalty.”

“… _I’m_ human,” Stiles reminds him as jokingly as he can even as he blinks back the sting in his eyes.

“You’re _my_ human,” Pollux corrects him, finally relenting and stretching up to give him a few comforting licks over the bruises littered across his face.  “And that makes all the difference.”

They fall silent for a while.  Stiles barely remembers the werewolf following them, listening to half a conversation.

“I think you value Scott’s life more than your own,” Pollux says at last, peering up at Stiles.  “And that would be… well, not fine, but it would be… tolerable if Scott valued _your_ life more than _his_ own, but he doesn’t.  He even values some girl he met only a few months ago more than you.”

Stiles flinches, and Pollux rubs his head against his jaw in apology but forges on nonetheless in unyielding tones.  “And I don’t like that.  I don’t like that at all.  I’ve never minded Scott before, but that’s only because he never showed me exactly where you rank in his life.  Now that he has, don’t expect me to ever forgive him.  Because Stiles?”  Pollux rears up, paws on Stiles’ chest, touching noses.  “Stiles, _I_ value _no one’s_ life more than I value yours.”

Stiles hugs him.  Well he was already hugging him but… Pollux nuzzles him when Stiles buries his face in his fur.  He doesn’t even know he’s stopped walking until he pulls back and sniffs a bit, startling badly when he finds Peter standing a polite three feet away on his right.

He yelps and skitters away another foot.  “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Peter arches an eyebrow that says _everything_.  Stiles flushes red.

He looks down at Pollux again, who’s turned his gaze on Peter, tail tip twitching calculatingly, ears flat against his head.  He looks at Peter.  He looks at Pollux again.  “…I’m still going after Scott.  I have to at least make sure he’ll be okay.”

Pollux bares his teeth.  “He doesn’t _deserve_ -”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Stiles concedes heavily, not quite ready to admit that outright.  “But… I still have to go.  He’s practically my brother, and… and you can be mad at family, you can even not like them very much, but they’re still family at the end of the day, and that means you love them anyway even when you don’t like them.”

Pollux makes an odd hissing sound like a snake, and he bristles in Stiles’ arms like he wants to run off and bite Scott a good one.  But in the end, all he does is heave a sigh because he knows how stubborn Stiles can get, so he says instead, “One day, you’ll learn that even some family isn’t worth the trouble.  But not today, I guess.  Alright, let’s go back to school first and pick up your jeep.  That’s closer, and you can get to Scott faster that way.  Also, if you drive, you won’t have to walk the whole way and make your injuries _worse_.”

Stiles beams.  No matter how much Pollux might disagree with his decisions, at least he knows that his fox won’t ever leave him.

He almost starts walking again when he remembers Peter’s still there.  For some reason.  He could’ve gone… somewhere else by now, right?  Maybe back to Derek?  Stiles is pretty sure Peter doesn’t actually have a house to go home to, unless you count the burnt-out shell of the Hale house.

He stares at Peter.  Peter stares back.

“I’m going after Scott,” Stiles says eventually.

“I gathered,” Peter nods, lip curling ever so slightly with unmistakeable disdain.  Stiles is too tired to make a big deal out of it.

He waits for Peter to walk away.  Peter cocks his head and somehow manages to look politely enquiring and sarcastically condescending at the same time.

“Um, you can go now,” Stiles tells him, but when Pollux sniggers somewhat unkindly, he quickly tacks on, “But thanks for… coming to find me?  Not sure why, and don’t think I’m gonna start feeling indebted to you or something ’cause I would’ve gotten outta there fine even without you but, yeah.  Thanks.”

He stops and takes a breath.  Peter has an odd expression on his face now, full of something Stiles can’t name.

And the silence is getting awkward, the sort of awkward that Stiles feels when he talks to someone for too long, and the person gets all plastic and fake because they want to tell Stiles to beat it, because he’s so _weird_ , but they don’t want to be rude.

Honestly, Stiles would rather they were rude.  Jackson does his damndest to be downright cruel but Stiles has never been afraid of bullies, and Pollux never fails to scoff about insecure cowards whenever the lacrosse captain insults them.

Not that _Peter_ is plastic and fake right now, or at least Stiles doesn’t think he is, but it’s still awkward, and Stiles doesn’t really like awkward even if he practically _redefines_ the word whenever he opens his mouth in public.

So he does what he always does in these situations – he turns and leaves, and the person he leaves behind – as Pollux informs him with a sneer – usually scoots off in the opposite direction, stinking of relief and some combination of irritation, pity, and secondhand embarrassment, muttering about freaks and nutcases.  Stiles hasn’t cared in a long time.  Pollux loves him just the way he is, and that’s almost always been enough.

Tonight, his leg hurts and his chest hurts and his face hurts.  Everything hurts, and it makes his head a bit fuzzy, so it takes about half a block before he realizes that Peter is still following him.  That the werewolf hasn’t left.

“Um.”  He doesn’t stop again because at this rate, he’s never going to get anywhere, but he does glance nervously back at Peter a few times.

“I could rip his throat out,” Pollux assures him, ears no longer lying flat but eyes no less hostile.  “But he isn’t around to cause trouble.  At least not right now.”

Stiles looks back at Peter.  Admittedly, even no longer an Alpha, the werewolf is dangerous and good to have on hand when tonight inevitably goes south.  Or _more_ south than it’s already gone.

Peter gazes back calmly, hands in his coat pockets, smirk sharp on his face.  He looks like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, strolling along behind Stiles, bisected by moonlight, silent save for the faintest rustle of fabric.

“I’m going after Scott,” Stiles announces in case it hasn’t been clear enough.  “I can’t have him mauled by the kanima or shot by Gerard or something.”

Peter just nods.  “I would suggest picking up Lydia first then.  She can deal with the kanima.”

Stiles stares for a moment longer.  And then he quits craning his head around and just goes with it.

Whatever.  He’s got bigger problems than Peter Hale right now, and ain’t that just Beacon Hills for you?

 

* * *

 

Stiles barrels his jeep through a wall and into Jackson with a combination of vindictive glee and overwhelming relief because the collision also flings the kanima away from where it was two seconds away from skewering Scott.  Pollux cackles in his lap with equally malicious delight.  Lydia screams even before impact, undoubtedly alarmed, probably terrified, clutching at the interior of the jeep with a death grip.  And in the back, Peter doesn’t make a sound even as one of his hands curls around the ceiling handle on the left while his other clamps down on Stiles’ shoulder and keeps him pinned to his seat as Roscoe jumps and bumps and tosses all the occupants around a bit before finally coming to a crunching halt.

On one hand, Stiles’ budget is going to pay for that – quite literally – later.  On the other, hitting Jackson felt _really damn good_.  If he’s lucky, maybe he even managed to kill the asshole.

Of course, when has Lady Luck ever favoured Stiles?  So he’s not surprised when he glimpses the kanima’s scaly limbs stirring from under a pile of rubble.  He also sees Scott, Derek, Isaac, Chris, and Allison all scattered around the warehouse, with Gerard slumped on the ground and oozing black goo.

Fantastic.  They’re just in time for the final showdown.

“That’s Jackson,” Stiles turns to Lydia.  “It’s all on you now.”

Lydia doesn’t even bother sending a withering glare his way, sucking in a shaky breath instead before clambering out of the jeep and marching off towards her lizard boyfriend.

She doesn’t lack courage when it counts, Stiles will give her that much.

“Stiles, he’s trying to get away,” Pollux growls, and Stiles quickly follows his line of sight to where Gerard has managed lever himself up onto his hands and knees and is attempting to crawl towards the nearest hole in the wall.  No one else takes any notice as the kanima leaps up again and lunges for the nearest werewolf.

Who happens to be Scott.  Scott manages to scramble back but it still makes Stiles grit his teeth and fumble for the door handle.  “We should’ve killed Jackson when we had the chance.”

“Push comes to shove, you kill it,” Pollux instructs, jumping off his lap and onto the passenger seat.  His lips peel back to reveal gleaming white teeth.  “Leave Gerard to me.”

Stiles nods, feeling the weight of the gun tucked in his jeans, the one he lifted off one of the hunters back in the Argent house.

Push comes to shove.  He could always say it was self-defense.

 

* * *

 

Peter watches Stiles run off towards Scott, faithful until the end.  He doesn’t know what Pollux was saying earlier, obviously, but, well, half a conversation is still a decent enough clue, and Peter can’t say he disagrees.  With the fox, that is, not Stiles.

The boy has no sense of his own mortality.  Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Peter’s gaze slants down to where Stiles set the fox plushie down, in the seat that Lydia – near frozen with fear when she caught sight of Peter – previously occupied. He studies it for a long moment, not daring to actually touch it.  You can’t avoid an attack if you can’t even sense it coming after all.

He glances up again through the windshield, to where the kanima seems to be playing a lethal rendition of whack-a-mole with the werewolves.  Or perhaps dodgeball.  With idiots for balls, considering it just threw Derek into Isaac, sending both of them crashing into the far wall.

Peter smirks, more than a little entertained.

He looks at Pollux again, only to go motionless when he finds the seat empty.  He scans the interior of the jeep before settling on the passenger door that Lydia left open.

How fascinating.

He climbs out of the jeep himself, not in any particular hurry to throw himself into battle.  Lydia’s already shouting tearfully at her weak-minded fool of a boyfriend; one way or the other, it’ll be over soon.

He’s more interested in Gerard, who has just managed to drag himself out of the warehouse, in the general direction of the forest.

Almost every last one of Peter’s instincts roar at him to go after the Argent patriarch, to see him dead and torn apart and burned to ash with his own hands if for no other reason than to reassure himself that Gerard will never be able to do any more harm again.

But the rest of him…

He watches Stiles tackle Scott to the ground just as the kanima takes a swipe at them.  It misses but Peter is already moving, cutting in front of Stiles – and consequently Scott – just as the kanima’s tail swings around.

He bites back a curse and has to dig in his heels when the tail slams into him.  He feels his ribs crack and almost all the breath leaves his lungs, and neither of those things should happen, not if he was at full strength or even half the strength he used to have before the fire, not if he was anything but an omega.  And the anger that that reminder stirs in his belly lends him just enough strength to sink his claws in that much deeper before yanking the kanima right off its feet and hurling it across the warehouse.  Pain lances through his torso but at least the creature collapses under several supporting beams with a satisfying screech of agony.

Lydia screams again, and Scott yells from somewhere behind him, “What are you doing?!  That’s Jackson!”

For one frozen crystalline moment, Peter is almost blinded with rage, but before he can round on the ungrateful brat, there’s the sound of a smack, followed by a protesting yelp, and then Stiles snaps, “Shut _up_ , Scott; if Jackson’s still in there, he’s so far gone it’s not worth mentioning!”

Peter forces himself to breathe, hiding a grimace when his ribs complain loudly.  He backs away as the kanima gets up again.  His quota of heroics is filled for the month.  Possibly for the year.  Possibly for the rest of his _life_.

Although…

He glances to his left, in time to catch Stiles’ lingering, almost puzzled scrutiny.

Never let it be said he doesn’t know how to multitask.

The next fifteen minutes pan out more or less the way Peter expected.  Derek and Isaac are tossed around a bit more, the Argent girl stands around and apparently proves to be about as useful as a Christmas ornament when she isn’t as crazy as her grandfather, and her daddy dearest looks like he wants to shoot but – of course – doesn’t, the one time he actually _should_.  No, he saves his bullets for werewolves, innocent or otherwise, all the while preaching the Code when it’s really just to make himself feel better for being nothing more than an obedient little soldier under his father’s thumb.

Argents.  An empire built on innocents while proudly claiming innocence.  Sometimes, even Peter doesn’t understand how they can still hold their heads up and insist on their moral high ground without choking on the hypocrisy.  At least _he_ knows what he is – an unrepentant killer when it comes to those who have wronged him or get in his way, even before the fire, and now a man with nothing left to lose and what little compassion he was born with almost entirely burnt out of him – and he has never denied it.  The Argents on the other hand love to blather on about their Code, about hunting _monsters_ when Peter has rarely met anyone or anything as monstrous as that family.

He bites back the snarl clawing its way up his throat.  He should probably stop thinking about them so much, lest he actually loses control and tries to kill them.  He could probably manage it but he would probably also die in the process, and he’s already cashed in his get-out-of-death-free card.

He watches the Whittemore brat go from lizard to corpse to werewolf, with Lydia sobbing over his body, and then they kiss like every happily ever after in a Disney movie.  Teenagers.  So needlessly dramatic.

But at least the party’s over.  Derek leaves without a word and only a hard glower in Scott’s direction.  The Lahey boy slinks after him.  And Jackson and Lydia are left to make their own way home, still clutching at each other like long-lost lovers.

Peter turns his attention onto Stiles, onto the way the boy stares after Scott, who is already holding hands with Allison again, fawning over her and giving her those pathetically lovestruck eyes.

Stiles stares and stares and stares, only blinking – almost sluggishly – once his best friend and Allison have piled into the Argents’ car, and Argent himself drives them off to who knows where.

Peter doesn’t need a single whiff of Stiles’ scent to pick up the betrayal in every line of the boy’s body, in the way he holds himself, empty and tired and hurting in the wake of being forgotten once again.

But then he turns and shakes himself.  He doesn’t seem to notice Peter as he limps towards the woods bordering the warehouse out back.  Peter follows, curiosity piqued despite the ache in his gradually healing ribs.  They end up walking several feet into the forest before coming to a stop, and Peter almost laughs when the sight they come upon confirms all his suspicions, however unbelievable they were.

Pollux is there, sitting motionless on the forest floor.  And Gerard is sprawled out beside the fox, trickles of black fluid slowly drying on wrinkled skin, body no longer actively rejecting the Bite he was given because his throat has been torn wide open, and he is very, very dead.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”  Stiles asks as he picks up his companion, and even from this distance, Peter catches a glimpse of dark red smeared across the fox’s muzzle.

“I give you plenty of credit,” Stiles grouches, cuddling Pollux to his chest.  “But it’s _Gerard_.”  He pauses, listening.  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”  He looks down at the corpse.  “Guess we should burn the body, huh?  Just in case.”  Another pause, and then he brightens.  “Oh right, Nissa can help.”

Stiles reaches into his hoodie and retrieves a… well, for a second, Peter almost thinks it’s a dog whistle.  But it’s white and thin, and after a moment of observation, he decides it’s a piece of wood.  White birch perhaps.

Stiles snaps it in two before both pieces dissolve in his hands.  A handful of seconds tick by, and then three balls of silver-white light come whizzing out from the surrounding trees, bobbing excitedly right up to Stiles and Pollux.

Peter has all of half a second to think _fireflies?_ before the balls of light start to _speak_.

“Hello Miłosław!”  “Hello Miłosław!”  “Hello Miłosław!”

“Hello Pollux!”  All three chorus, and their high-pitched voices remind Peter of the wind chimes that used to hang outside his daughter’s bedroom window.

For a moment, he can’t breathe.  Another moment and he has to force himself to breathe, shunting old memories into the back of his mind.

(Memories don’t bring back the dead.)

“Hey Nissa, Chante, Caliphe,” Stiles greets in return, happier than Peter has ever seen him, more relaxed too, standing amongst creatures who are obviously friends.

Peter squints and he can _just_ make out the transparent curve of a gossamer wing.  Fairies?  Since when were there fairies in Beacon Hills’ forests?  Hell, since when did fairies come at the beck and call of a human without reaping payment and raining down vengeance for their presumption?  And Peter can’t say he’s ever even read of anyone summoning fairies the way Stiles just did.

“You’re hurt,” One of the lights trills with audible distress, flitting forward to brush against one of the bruises mottling Stiles’ cheek.  “Why are you hurt?  Who hurt you?”  There’s a quicksilver flash of tiny razor-sharp teeth that yawns out from the ball of light, a split second of Jekyll and Hyde that somehow manages to send an inexplicable chill down Peter’s spine, as if the fairy just flooded the clearing with pure unadulterated _fear_.  “ **Can we kill them?** ”

“He’s already dead,” Stiles tells them, evidently unaffected, and his voice comes out exasperated but affectionate even as he points to Gerard on the ground.  “Pollux finished him off.  I just need help burning the body.  That’s why I called Nissa, ’cause she’s awesome with fire.”

The light floating on the far left somehow gives the impression of preening.  “Well of course I am.  Burn it down to nothing, right?  I can do that.”  The light spins smugly at its two friends.  “I _told_ you you two didn’t need to come.”

“If we want to come see Miłosław and Pollux, we will,” The third light snipes back loftily.  “They haven’t visited us in a while.  And they deserve better company than _you_ , gnat-wings.”

The other light – Nissa – positively vibrates with outrage but before it – she? – can actually say anything, Stiles steps in to soothe both of them.

“Hey, that’s enough,” Stiles admonishes.  “Caliphe, don’t be mean.  And Nissa, you still get riled up too easily.”

Caliphe drifts up and settles in Stiles’ hair like it’s sulking.  Nissa sniffs.  “I deal in _fire_ , Miłosław.  My temper is heat by nature.”

“I think you mean hot,” Stiles corrects her.  “But I meant to say before – you’re all speaking English a lot better now.”

Caliphe perks up, and Nissa’s light loses its bristly edge.  The last – who must be Chante – tucks itself above Pollux’s head and under Stiles’ chin.

“We had a good teacher,” Chante says, and Stiles’ cheeks tinge pink.

“Well,” Stiles clears his throat.  “You three have been teaching me Sylvan.  It’s only fair.”

He stops, and his next words are in a language Peter doesn’t understand, but they hold the delicate ringing quality of bittersweet bells somehow, and the three fairies eagerly reply in the same tongue.

They switch to Sylvan from there on out as they move to surround Gerard’s body.  Within minutes, it bursts into bluebell flames that steadily engulf the corpse until there is nothing left, and when the task is done, Stiles leans forward and gives Nissa a kiss, one that turns the fairy’s light to a delighted shade of midwinter sky blue.

For a good twenty minutes after, they chat some more amongst themselves, but eventually, Stiles waves goodbye, and each of the three fairies bumps against Stiles’ forehead and then Pollux’s – kisses perhaps, since they seem fond of them – before finally gliding away back through the trees, swiftly disappearing again into the night as silently as they first arrived.

Still standing in the shadows of a tree himself, Peter doesn’t think he has ever felt quite as awed as he does now.  He knows he’s witnessed something special, and when Stiles and Pollux both turn unerringly in his direction, he knows he’s been _allowed_ to witness it.

They walk back out of the woods in a silence that is strangely peaceful, strangely comfortable.  Peter is still surprised when they reach the jeep and Stiles turns to him with whiskey gold eyes that seem to stare straight into the very heart of him.

“My place has a guest bedroom.  If you need it, it’s yours.”

For once, Peter has nothing to say.  But he looks at this impossible boy.  And he looks at the equally impossible fox.

When Stiles slides into his jeep again, Peter follows him into the passenger seat.

 

* * *

 

“Your father won’t mind?”  Peter asks right before they enter the house.

Stiles only shrugs, Pollux – perched on his shoulder – rising and falling with the motion.  “He’s outta town.”  He jabs a thumb at the empty driveway.  “He’s Sheriff of Beacon _County_ , not just this town, and yeah, people have been dropping like flies around here lately but that doesn’t mean people aren’t dropping like flies in other places too, and cases that he can actually solve take precedence.  He’s clapping some serial killer in irons right now.  Human serial killer.  So, you know, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

He lets them inside, setting Pollux down on the floor before flicking on the hallway light.  “Right, come on.  I’ll-” He pauses to rake an eye over Peter without an ounce of flirtation or attraction.  “Actually, you’ll fit my clothes.  So you can grab a shower, and I’ll get dinner start- ow!  Lux!”

Peter took his eyes off Pollux for a _second_.  The fox is suddenly beside Stiles instead of by the door where Stiles put him down.

“Okay, okay!”  Stiles huffs before turning back to Peter.  His left eye is beginning to swell.  “Lux says I need to patch myself up first.”

“By all means,” Peter nods.  “I was going to suggest that myself, considering you look about ready to keel over.”

Stiles looks faintly indignant, but then he looks down at Pollux, and his expression folds into a weary scowl.

 “Would you like a hand?”  Peter offers even though he knows Stiles will say-

“Nah,” Stiles shakes his head, stooping to scoop up Pollux again.  “I can handle it.  I’ll show you to the bathroom first.  This way.”

There’s a difference between inviting someone you don’t trust into your house and letting that same someone near all your vulnerable spots.

And Peter gets the sense that Stiles has been taking care of his own vulnerable spots for a very long time now.

 

* * *

 

Peter doesn’t trust Stiles either, not really, no matter how mesmerizing he finds the boy.  But Stiles offers him a roof over his head and gives him fresh clothes and feeds him a delicious warm meal and even lends him a few books to read, novels that came out when Peter was stuck in a coma, and asks for nothing in return.

He sleeps like the dead that night and dreams of silver-white lights and words that sing in his ears like bells, so maybe he does trust Stiles after all, just a little, just enough, to make a difference.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	37. Dioskouroi (Pt.3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living arrangements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Spirit Animals, Preslash
> 
> So pointless. Idek.

 

“It really would be more convenient for everyone involved if I just ripped your throat out now,” Someone remarks, casual as you please, and Peter jolts awake.

Only to freeze when he finds a fox plushie perched on his chest, its paws just a hair too close to his neck for comfort.

His first instinct is to grab it and hurl it across the room.  His second is to bash that first instinct down until it’s been locked up tight at the back of his mind because he gets the feeling that if he actually goes through with this very logical reaction, he’ll soon be very logically dead.

So instead, he swallows and focuses on breathing.  It’s… weird, how Peter can’t sense even the slightest edge of killing intent from the fox, and the lack of it is probably why he never sensed anything amiss, because even fast asleep, a threat would’ve woken him.  In fact, staring at the fox toy, he’s reminded of Cora and her exasperating penchant for piling her stuffed elephants on top of Peter whenever she caught him taking a nap.  Yet at the same time, he knows beyond a doubt that right here and now, Pollux could leave him bleeding out, literally in the space of a blink.  Even worse, Peter’s healing factor isn’t even close to full strength, so depending on how deep Pollux bites or claws him, he may or may not survive the ordeal.

But Pollux doesn’t move.  Well, Peter wouldn’t see the fox moving anyway.  Whatever magic is involved, it doesn’t let anyone see the pseudo-stuffed animal so much as twitch, aside from Stiles.  But Peter doesn’t think he was imagining or dreaming that earlier threat.  He doesn’t know how that works – maybe it’s some form of dream magic? – but he’d very much like to be around to find out.

“…Not particularly convenient for me though,” Peter eventually replies dryly.

He isn’t expecting an answer, and he doesn’t get one.  But between one blink and the next, he thinks he feels a prickling sensation through the fabric of the shirt he borrowed off Stiles, as if Pollux is kneading the claws of his back legs into Peter’s chest, and it doesn’t take a genius to hear the warning.

Peter considers his next words with more caution, although in the end, he supposes there’s really only one thing he can say, and thankfully, it’s the truth.

“I’m not planning on hurting Stiles,” He tells the fox plainly, and a part of him – despite _knowing_ that Pollux isn’t just a regular child’s toy – still can’t quite believe he’s taking this as seriously as he is, fake red fur and beady blank eyes and all.

It’s probably the adult part of him.  Belief is for children after all, and everyone loses that sooner or later.  Except Stiles apparently.

He stares up at the fox.  The fox stares back, and for a long three blinks on his part, nothing happens.  But then he takes another breath, blinks again, breathes again, and when Peter checks, he’s eighty-five percent certain that Pollux’s paws aren’t quite as close to his neck as before.

Before he can start wondering whether or not it would now be safe to physically move the fox off of him (probably not), he hears Stiles call out, “Pollux?  Where are you?  You better not be bothering Peter.  I think he’s tired.”

 _Too late_ , Peter thinks rather sardonically, but an uncomfortable squiggle of warmth also unfolds in his chest, and it takes him several confused seconds to realize it’s a pleased sort of surprise.

He shakes it off.  There’s no reason for something so ridiculous.

The door clicks, and Peter’s gaze automatically slides over to it, only to snap back when the negligible pressure on his chest disappears.

Because the damn fox is now sitting at the foot of the bed.  Peter scowls at it because he doesn’t need to see Pollux in motion to picture innocence personified on its face.  It’s the exact same look Peter would be wearing if their positions were reversed.

“Pollux?”  The door swings open, and Stiles steps inside, eyes immediately drawn to his animal companion.  “What are you doing in here?”  He turns to Peter, and his expression shifts to something more uncertain, fingers absently tangling in the hem of his oversized t-shirt.  “Sorry, did he wake you?”

He looks so young, sometimes.  But Peter watched him finish making dinner for the two of them last night with an efficiency that can only be born from long practice, watched him fold his father’s clean laundry like he’s old hands at it, watched him leave a voice message for the Sheriff to be safe and to remember to eat something healthy, even watched him mark down a grocery list for the coming weekend, Pollux sitting beside him as they carefully went over the bundle of discount coupons and flyers stacked in a corner of the kitchen.

It’s like seeing an adult in a child and a child in an adult at the same time.  It’s unsettling, prickling at every last one of Peter’s instincts, but he doesn’t let it show, only sitting up and shrugging instead as he runs a hand through his hair.  “It’s fine.  I had a good night’s rest anyway.”

And he did, much to his surprise.  He can barely remember the last time he slept without being locked inside his head, memories-turned-nightmares keeping him company.

“Okay,” Stiles’ head bobs, and then he shuffles further in until he’s close enough to scoop Pollux into his arms.  The bruises on his face look even worse than last night, although judicious application of an icepack has at least prevented his left eye from swelling shut, and at this angle, Peter catches a glimpse of a patch of rust red staining the back of Stiles’ shirt.  He still smells faintly of Gerard and hunters, of ruptured blood vessels and pain.

He doesn’t realize his hands have fisted the sheets in a white-knuckled grip until he sees Stiles staring at him warily.  His jaw ticks, and on his next exhale, he forces his fingers to unclench, smoothing out the wrinkles to make sure he hasn’t accidentally poked holes in them.

His control’s still a bit shoddy, but he supposes he should be grateful that he’s no longer as out-of-control as he was when he was angry as all hell after six years alone and rotting away in a coma, high on the rush of Alpha power.  Death – if nothing else – at least knocked the worst of the madness out of him.

Although how long that’s going to last is anyone’s guess.  He has no pack, no anchor.  He’s still weak from his stint in limbo.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

“One of your injuries reopened,” He points out instead, keeping his voice steady and mild.

Stiles blinks before looking down at himself.

“Your back,” Peter clarifies, and then frowns when all Stiles does is reach around and rub a hand over whatever injury is under the shirt before letting his hand drop and shrugging.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, and then he winces and looks down at Pollux.  “I mean-” He sighs.  “Yeah alright, I’ll go slap another bandage over it.”

And with that said, he wanders back out, only tossing back a last, “Breakfast will be ready in half an hour.”

Which means Peter should get out of bed.  After all, if Stiles is willing to feed him again, who is he to say no?

Once Stiles kicks him out, it’ll probably be his last decent meal for a while.

 

* * *

 

“So what’re you gonna do now?”  Stiles asks after breakfast has been packed away.  Peter is sitting on one end of the living room couch with a book and trying to feel like he isn’t trespassing, while Stiles is curled up on the other, half an eye on the TV and Pollux in his lap, because apparently, nobody cares if he plays truant.

Peter glances up, considering the question for a moment before smirking.  “Plot my dear nephew’s death perhaps.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, and his scent remains largely disinterested, which is…

“You don’t care for Derek?”  Peter asks, genuinely curious.

Stiles frowns, fiddling with the remote.  “Not really?  I mean I don’t particularly like him, but I don’t particularly _dis_ like him either.  It’s not like we’re friends; I just hid him for a few days when he was on the run from the law ’cause I felt partly responsible.”  He glances down at Pollux before tacking on with a vague air of embarrassment, “And I saved his life a couple times I suppose.  And he isn’t mean to Pollux or mean to me _about_ Pollux, so that’s a point to him.  He doesn’t even treat us like Scott does.  Um, Scott is usually… indulgent about us, I guess?  I used to think he believed Pollux is real too, and maybe he did once?  But eventually I realized he just acts the way most grownups would act around a really young kid when they’re introducing you to an imaginary friend or something.  Of course, that’s not to say that Derek believes us any more than Scott does, but he just took it in stride after he noticed the whole me-and-Pollux thing, he doesn’t go out of his way to pretend to believe us, and we both like that better than what Scott does.  But we’re not friends, and I like his choice in Betas even less, so.”  He shrugs.  “I wouldn’t want you to kill Derek, but I don’t think you were being serious anyway.”

Peter listens patiently to the long ramble.  In a twisted sort of way, he’s almost proud of Derek for at least treating Stiles better than Scott does.  Better than most people do in fact.  But of course, that doesn’t stop the simultaneous desire to wring Derek’s neck for everything the idiot has – inadvertently or otherwise – done.  Somehow, Peter doubts that feeling will ever go away entirely.

“The urge is there,” He assures, smirking again when Stiles snorts with amusement.

“Is being Alpha so important?”  Stiles asks next, and Peter stills.

He’s always wanted it, to some degree, but – before the fire – never enough to kill for it.  Mostly, Peter just… wanted to have the _choice_ to be Alpha, wanted his family to stop overlooking him or looking down on him for being born too late, for being too young, for having to fight and claw for every last scrap of approval from their parents, and he never even got that without it being underscored by disappointment or derision.

Even worse though was probably being relegated to the position of Talia’s enforcer, the one with the most blood on his hands, the one who had to do all the dirty work.  He didn’t _mind_ doing it – he was good at it, and someone had to, so it might as well have been him because Peter trusted only himself to make sure no one got close enough to hurt his pack ( _yet he still failed because he forgot to look for enemies amongst his own family_ ) – but he hated, absolutely _loathed_ , the way his entire pack condemned him for it, the way Talia judged him for it, when it was she who gave him the job in the first place, and it was even expected for him to continue serving under Laura once she was old enough.

Oh, _Laura_.  Spoiled rotten because she was born first, just like Talia.  But she was still his niece, and no matter how badly she treated him ( _because he should know his place as her Beta_ ), Peter thinks he would still have remained loyal, still have latched on because she and Derek would’ve been all Peter had left in the aftermath of the fire, if only she hadn’t left him behind, culled him from the pack the way no halfway decent wolf – much less _Alpha_ – would have done to an injured packmate.

But she did.  And maybe it made him a monster, but Peter will never regret ripping her throat out that fateful night.

The Alpha power itself isn’t what he wants most, although he certainly does want it.  But no, what he wants most is the safety it provides, because no one’s ever protected Peter the way Peter protected his family, not even his wife, who loved him and supported him but – as blasphemous as it feels to even think it – could never quite relate to him completely, wasn’t quite his equal in every way, wouldn’t quite stand shoulder to shoulder with him against the world when it came down to it because Talia’s word was still law, and he didn’t care because he loved her back just as much, and he was long used to it anyway, but, well, once in a while, he thought it would’ve been nice, to have someone like that.

Still, if no one was capable of protecting him or even _willing_ to protect him, then he would just have to protect himself, and extra power can only ever help.

Then again, he _was_ Alpha, for however short a time, and in the end, it still didn’t really make a difference, did it?  It still didn’t keep him safe, didn’t destroy all his enemies or give him a pack that would kill for him or walk through hell with him.  To be fair, at least part of that could be blamed on his mental state at the time, but still.  He doubts Scotty would’ve been any less judgementally righteous about him than Talia, and Derek, he and Derek would always have their family’s deaths dividing them.  Because Peter has never been one to forgive and forget, and Derek is a little more like Peter than either of them will ever admit out loud.

He starts when something nudges his thigh, and when he blinks back into the present, he finds socked toes prodding at him.

“When I was little,” Stiles tells him out of the blue.  “I wanted to be a fairy.”

Peter slowly lifts his gaze.  Stiles doesn’t retrieve his foot from where it’s pressed against Peter’s leg, but he’s also fixed his eyes on Pollux, fingers combing through his companion’s fur.

“Because,” The boy continues doggedly.  “I made fairy friends who liked me and didn’t call me a freak and believed me about Pollux until they could see him too.”

Peter cocks his head.  So even the fae didn’t always see Pollux?

“Because,” Stiles looks up, and his smile is bittersweet.  “They played with me and Pollux, and they helped us prank our bullies whenever they were mean, and the one time I fell into the river and couldn’t get out because the current was too strong and Pollux couldn’t get to me on time, they dropped everything and came to save me even though they were all right in the middle of celebrating the fairy queen’s birthday.”

He falls silent, but he doesn’t really have to say anything else.  He stares at Peter, and Peter stares back, and all he can think is, _this crazy, impossible boy understands_ , and Peter never even had to say a word.

“…Did they get in trouble?”  Peter enquires after a contemplative pause, if only because he’s never even heard of a single human meaning half that much to the fae.

“We all thought we _all_ would,” Stiles smiles again, and this time, it’s a little happier, one that remembers joy.  “But I wasn’t smited – smote? – to kingdom come, and Nissa and the others weren’t punished either.”  His expression sobers.  “So, now, I don’t think it’s about being a fairy.  Or about being Alpha.”

Peter huffs a laugh that isn’t at all amused.  “Then what is it about?”

Stiles’ lips purse.  “I think it’s just about finding the right people, that’s all.”

Peter wants to snark something back.  He even opens his mouth, a sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue.  But nothing comes out, and the silence stretches until Peter looks away and closes his eyes, listening to the murmur of the television and Stiles’ leapfrog heartbeat.

Stiles doesn’t move his foot.  Peter doesn’t make him.

 

* * *

 

Peter stays another day, another night, and then another day, and then another night.  Stiles cooks him lunch so Peter insists on cooking the next dinner.  They take turns.

“But Pollux’s favourite is rabbit,” Stiles tells him, so Peter obliges, heading out to the Preserve and dutifully coming back with a freshly killed rabbit for each meal.

Stiles tells him that Pollux says he isn’t a half-bad hunter.  Considering the fox was considering murder just that morning, Peter supposes it’s a step up.

He takes the guest bedroom again, the second night, and he jerks awake once, at around three, blanket tangled around his legs, sweating as he pulls himself out of the blaze of his family home.  He gets up, grabs himself a glass of water, and then – shockingly enough – manages to fall back asleep.  He doesn’t dream this time, and when he wakes up at a more respectable hour, there’s a dreamcatcher hanging at the window, except it’s made of white birch and what feels like silk but probably isn’t because when he touches it, it _sings_ like a bow drawn across a violin, pure and sweet and inexplicably reminding him of grassy meadows on a summer day.

He doesn’t dream the third night, or if he does, he doesn’t remember, and he’s well-rested when he wakes.

Stiles doesn’t bring it up, and Peter doesn’t know how to bring it up.  He’s never been one to express his gratitude overly much, never really had cause to either, and what _can_ you say about such a priceless gift anyway?

And then Stiles goes and says, “Do you have any money?”

Peter smiles thinly at him over his eggs.  “Dead men usually don’t.”  He takes an almost inelegant gulp of his tea.  “It was one of Talia’s policies – money made by pack goes to the pack.  We could set up separate accounts for ourselves, which I did, but they were always connected to the family one so that in times of emergencies, other people could draw from them as needed, and we would also be able to ‘pool our resources more quickly’.”  He swallows another mouthful of tea, ignoring the scalding heat of the liquid.  “Laura drained my account when I was in the coma.  I already checked.  Even my clothes – after I woke up – were bought by my nurse.”

Stiles is… frowning at him, looking more than a little disturbed.  But he doesn’t hand out useless platitudes or blurt out anything that might tempt Peter towards violence.  Instead, he nods after a moment, glances at Pollux, and then leaves the kitchen.

 He comes back with a box full of cash.  Even Peter is momentarily struck speechless by the sheer amount inside it.

Stiles just pushes a credit card across the table at him.  “Hypothetically, selling essays over the internet pays a lot.”  Peter raises an eyebrow.  Stiles forges on heedlessly.  “Also hypothetically, the poker dens downtown won’t accuse you of cheating so long as you don’t win every hand or by too much every time you go.”

Peter stares from Stiles to the money and then back to Stiles.  “…And they just… let you in to those poker games?”

“Caliphe is awesome with illusions and can make me look like a completely different – and older – person,” Stiles explains promptly, pauses, and then amends, “Hypothetically.”

Peter rolls his eyes.  “Stiles, I’ve murdered people.  I’m hardly going to throw stones about your hypothetically illegal accomplishments.”

He looks at the money again.  The money Stiles is just _giving_ him, and because of that, almost every part of him rebels against taking it.  He wouldn’t care if he was _stealing_ someone’s money.  Well, probably someone who isn’t Stiles.  But this is-

“It’s not pity money,” Stiles interjects, eyes sharp on Peter’s face.  “Think of it as… practical money.”

Peter snorts.  “Stiles-”

“You need it,” Stiles cuts him off, voice low and terse and intent.  “You literally need it to get back on your feet.”

Peter’s lips peel back in a snarl for a few seconds before he manages to smooth it out again.  “I can always steal from Derek.”

“And when Derek finds out?”  Stiles demands.  “It’s not like it’s that hard.  His money goes missing, you’re suddenly living in an apartment and wearing new clothes.  Even Scott would put two and two together.  And then you’ll have Derek breaking down your door and punching you in the face, and really, is that a hassle you want to deal with?”

Peter almost grinds his teeth together.  “I could leave.”

Stiles studies him, looks at Pollux for some reason, and then turns to him again.  “Are you going to?”

Peter’s jaw clenches.

No.  No, of course not.  This is the land of his ancestors.  His wife and child are buried here.  And it’s not like Derek knows anything about patrolling the borders or creating and renewing alliances or anything else required of a werewolf attempting to stake their claim on territory they already abandoned years ago, much less the duties of an Alpha.  And if Peter doesn’t want this town being reduced to a smoking crater, he’ll probably have to be the one to manipulate Derek into doing all those things sooner or later, and it will probably hurt.

His claws dig into his thighs.  A day has finally come when he’s supposed to let his own nephew smack him around just to appease the boy-Alpha’s inevitable desire to make him submit.  How utterly humiliating.

“…Why are you doing this?”  Peter counters instead.  He lets his features harden, his eyes go cold, pulling back all sense of camaraderie they’ve come to share over the past few days.  “We were enemies, Stiles.  As I recall, you threw a Molotov cocktail at me.”

Stiles instantly reaches out and puts a hand on Pollux’s back, but he doesn’t look away from Peter, and Peter nearly cracks a grin when Stiles shoots back, “And don’t think I regret it.  You were out of your mind.  And Lux definitely doesn’t regret it.”

He stops.  Peter waits.

“We’re not enemies anymore though,” Stiles finally says.  “Lux can smell that sort of thing.  And…”

“…And?”

Stiles glowers, looking discomfited.  “What, I can’t just be nice for once?  Look, I dunno, you’re not so bad, for three days of living with each other.  And you came after me when I was kidnapped, when Scott didn’t even-”

He clams up, but Peter thinks he understands now.  He remembers getting into the jeep when Stiles offered.  Sleeping in the same house as the person who basically set him on fire and feeling perfectly… safe.  Eating meals together like they’ve done it for years.  Discussing werewolves and other supernatural creatures.

They’ve clicked on a level that-

No.  That’s not a thought he wants to finish.  At least not right now.

He looks at the money again.  “…What is this supposed to be for?”

Stiles blinks.  “What?  It’s for y-”

“Why have you made so much money in the first place?”  Peter expounds.  “People don’t make money for no reason.”

Stiles’ gaze drops, and it takes a minute to drag it back up.  “When my mom got sick, the hospital bills… piled up.  It was expensive.  But worth it!”  The last bit is tacked on like Stiles thought Peter would accuse him of feeling otherwise.  Stiles grimaces, distractedly rubbing his cheek against Pollux’s fur before gesturing at the money and mumbling, “Thisismycollegefund.”

Peter’s face goes blank as he parses that sentence, and then he says flatly, “I’m not taking your college fund, Stiles.”

Stiles bristles in response.  “You’re not _taking_ anything.  I’m _offering,_ and I can.  It’s my money, not my dad’s or anything.  Actually, I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t even know I have this.”

“You’ve spent less than _three days_ in my company,” Peter growls back.  “You don’t give up your college fund for serial killers after only three days.  You don’t give up your college fund for serial killers period!”

Stiles tilts his head.  His expression is oddly indecipherable in that moment.  “… _Former_ serial killer.”

Peter has to fight the urge to facepalm.  Or shake Stiles until he makes sense, if only because he doesn’t know if he’s more angry or frustrated with the boy.

“How would you know?”  He’s up and in front of Stiles in the blink of an eye, looming over him despite the slight height difference between them, eyes flashing, one clawed hand grazing Stiles’ throat.  “How could you possibly-”

He roars and tears himself away again when pain bursts along his forearm, and then Pollux is dropping limply to the ground, leaving his arm a bloody mess, the fox’s teeth having apparently sunk in to the bone.

“I _know_ , because if you don’t keep yourself in check, _that_ happens,” Stiles informs him even as he bends down to pick up his fox.

Peter snarls at both of them, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“Look,” Stiles huffs, hugging Pollux to his chest with one arm while he reaches for a clean towel in one of the kitchen cabinets.  “You can pay me back, okay?  I mean, what I have isn’t actually that much.  I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to buy a decent apartment, some clothes, food and other necessities for a couple months, and that’s it.  Maybe some identification papers if you know who to go to for that, or I can just get Caliphe to forge some for you.  So you’re gonna have to get a job eventually.  And I can always play more poker and write more essays.  I was gonna have to do that anyway since it’s not like this-” He motions at the cash and credit card.  “-would’ve given me a full ride to college on its own.  I’m holding out for a scholarship or two, so there’s that.  And there’s always government loans.”

Peter’s mouth twists with distaste even as he concentrates on soaking up some of the blood with the towel while he heals.

 _Government loans._   Jesus Christ.

He always resented the way Talia controlled all the money.  But at least he could say he never really wanted for anything material.  His grades ensured that he had his pick of universities, and the family money ensured that he had the means to go.  And honestly, Talia couldn’t wait to fund his ass out the door.  So he was never poor.  Until now.  And it’s not as if _Stiles_ is poor either.  But a combination of his mother’s illness and the fact that law enforcement probably doesn’t pay a whole lot must put a heavy dent in the Stilinski finances.  Besides, it could be said that a lot of people aren’t very well off if you compare them to the Hales.

He looks at this boy.  He doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone with quite this brand of stubborn.  Childish arguments and reasonable rationalizations at the same time.  And very clearly not taking no for an answer.  Might even sic that fox on him again if Peter insists on refusing.  After all, when relatively nonaggressive actions don’t get what you want, it’s time to move on to extortion, violent or otherwise, using whatever means necessary.

It’s what Peter would do.

“Show me where the poker dens are,” Peter says at last once his injury’s scabbed over and Pollux doesn’t look like he’ll be able to leap out of Stiles’ arms anytime soon.  He’s actually a little offended that he wasn’t already aware of there being poker dens in Beacon Hills at all.

Stiles looks taken aback.  “Huh?”

Peter bares his teeth in a mockery of a grin.  “Come now, Stiles.  Four hands at the poker tables will rake in more money.  And Las Vegas is always an option.  Either way, we’ll make enough to send you off to college by the time you graduate if that’s what you want.”

Stiles’ mouth drops open a little like he didn’t expect Peter to actually capitulate, or he didn’t think Peter would go that far.  Maybe he just thought Peter would simply send him a small portion of the money he’ll make in whatever job he’s going to get, and that would be it.

Peter removes the towel, flexing his hand to test the pull of new flesh.  When he glances up again, Stiles has Pollux tucked right up under his chin, a terribly honest sort of smile half-buried in the fox’s fur.

Peter looks away.

It’s… too soon.  Far too soon for what his wolf is already whining for.

Even if this is exactly what he was hoping to get when he first went after Stiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	38. Dioskouroi (Pt.4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection and fairies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Spirit Animals, Preslash, Fae  & Fairies, Original Character(s)

 

“I gave almost all my money away to Peter Hale,” Stiles says out loud as he flops back on his bed.  “Why did I do that?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” Pollux shoots back, licking one paw like a cat.  “Why _did_ you do that?”

Stiles just groans and rolls over until he can smother himself with his pillow.  It’s been over two weeks since he offered, two weeks, one successful apartment hunt, and a shopping spree that Peter dragged him along on.  The man didn’t buy a whole lot either, just enough to get by, only at shops that sold at reasonable prices, and constantly checking Stiles’ expression – probably his scent too – as if making sure _Stiles_ was okay with it.

Which he was, but the consideration was… nice, all the same.

After that, Stiles just insisted Peter keep the credit card with him, along with the box of cash.  Buying food each week costs more than you might think, and what _looks_ like a lot now definitely won’t stay that way for long.

And Stiles still doesn’t know why he did it, not entirely, not really.  But Peter came to get him out of the psycho hunters’ house (not that Stiles needed him to of course), and he treats Pollux like he believes the fox is real (which he is, so it’s only right that Peter treats him that way, _finally_ ), and he cooked for Stiles (fair), and he answered Stiles’ hundred and one questions about werewolves (and asked a few questions about the fae in return, which is, Stiles has to admit, also fair), and even just a few hours earlier when they parted ways, he was still looking at Stiles like- like-

Like something fascinating and amazing and not a freaky nutcase who belongs in the loony bin, and Stiles has _never_ , not once in his sixteen years, had someone look at him like that before.

“Well, at least you didn’t tell him or give him everything,” Pollux remarks, hopping up onto the bed and curling up beside Stiles’ head.

True.  Stiles isn’t _that_ stupid.  Speaking of which…

He rolls over again onto his back before sitting up and grabbing his laptop off his nightstand.

“How many orders do you have lined up?”  Pollux enquires, wriggling until his head is pillowed comfortably on Stiles’ thigh, with a direct line of sight at the screen.

Stiles scrolls quickly through his personal website.  “Uh, eighteen.  Although I’m gonna have to make another dreamcatcher since I gave one of them to Peter.”

Pollux snorts but doesn’t comment so Stiles limits himself to a brief pout.  He has a bit of a side business online where he sold things like dreamcatchers, wind chimes, bauble lamps, and other arts and crafts made out of materials he finds with his friends in the forest.  And they’re not just sold to humans either.  He has a supernatural following as well because for some reason, Stiles’ creations always _work_.  Dreamcatchers to protect you when you’re asleep, wind chimes to ward off bad luck or attract nice weather or any number of other things depending on what Stiles makes them out of, and bauble lamps made of stone found in rivers that the local merfolk sometimes deign to give him.

Particularly superstitious humans swear by his stock – as the comments they leave on his website tell him – and even the most skeptical appreciate the aesthetics of his crafts.  If they also happen to work, well, coincidence is always a good enough go-to answer.  Humans are like that.

The supernatural on the other hand adore what he makes.  Chante helped get the word out about his business, and it didn’t take long after the first couple sales for them to realize that Stiles’ merchandise are always as good as they’re promised to be.

Stiles used to think it was magic imbued into the materials by whatever creature gave them to him or even the forest itself in which he found them, but he brought that up a few times at the beginning and received everything from confused looks to disbelieving scoffs in return.  And no one would accept when Stiles offered to split the earnings with them.  But no one would explain why not either, only that they didn’t do anything to help because the extent of their assistance amounted to merely passing along random knickknacks that they happened to pick up whenever they had some spare time.

Frankly, Stiles didn’t get it, and still doesn’t get it, but even Pollux only spewed some snooty mumbo-jumbo about how Stiles will know when he’s older, and no amount of pestering could get the fox to say more.  In the end, Stiles dropped the subject out of sheer exasperation.  Otherwise, the mystery of it would’ve driven him crazy.

“The dreamcatcher’s just been ordered yesterday though so I have some time,” Stiles checks the other addresses, two to Japan, one to Italy, another to someone in Greenland of all places, and the rest to various locations across the Americas.  “But I can wrap and send off the rest today.”

And the money he makes here goes directly into an account separate from the one he gave Peter access to.  He _does_ need some cash for himself after all, and nobody ever accused Stiles of being altruistic.

“You’re still an idiot,” Pollux tells him as if reading his mind.  “You hardly know Peter.  Honestly, the best thing to do would be to put him right back into the grave he crawled out of.”

Stiles peers down at his companion.  “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“I don’t _hate_ him,” Pollux retorts loftily.  “I hate Gerard Argent.  I hate the hunters who helped him torture you.  I hate Matt Daehler.  I might even hate Jackson Whittemore, although that brat is so far beneath us that I suppose he isn’t even worth the effort of hating.  And I _dislike_ Boyd and Reyes for joining the ranks of your bullies and then abandoning you after you saved them.  I dislike Isaac Lahey because he has more issues than Boyd and Reyes combined and he likes taking it out on you now that he _can_.  I even dislike Lydia Martin because she’s a shallow, vain little girl who could be _so much better_ than she is right now, and I don’t just mean on an intellectual level.  But for all that Peter chased you and scared you and dragged you around a lot, he still never really hurt you.  I daresay he even _respects_ you.  And the people he killed – if they’d done to me what they did to Peter’s family, I would’ve killed them too.  If they’d done to _you_ what they did to Peter’s family, _you_ would’ve killed them too.  So no, I don’t hate him.  I don’t even really dislike him.  I just think he’s a potential threat to us, he _was_ a threat to us, and the smartest thing to do to a threat is to kill it before it kills us.”

Stiles stares for a long, silent minute weighted with stunned tension.  “…Is there anyone else you’d like to air your grievances about while you’re at it?”

Pollux sniffs haughtily and steamrolls onward like someone who’s held their tongue for far too long.  “Certainly.  I dislike most of your school’s population because they’re either deliberately cruel to you or they pretend not to notice others being cruel to you.  I dislike most of this town’s population because they’re judgemental bastards who think it’s alright to taunt and scorn someone just because they talk to a stuffed animal.  I dislike Scott McCall because he’s obliviously self-centered and he will never be the kind of friend you deserve, something he’s proven beyond all reasonable doubt since the day a pretty girl came into his life.  I dislike Allison Argent because she can’t think for herself and she listened to her grandfather torture you and was perfectly _fine_ with it.  I dislike _all_ the Argents because they boast about their precious Code but throw it out the window whenever it suits them.  Most of all though,” His head cranes around to meet Stiles’ shocked eyes.  “I dislike your father because he lost the right to be one a long time ago.”

The silence this time is heavier, more pained, and infinitely more deafening.

“…You’ve never said anything about Dad before,” Stiles whispers, eyes downcast and stinging, fingers curling into Pollux’s fur the way they always do when he wants that extra bit of security.  “Not like- Not like _that_ , I mean.”

“Because I thought you were too young to hear it,” Pollux clambers onto his lap and snuggles comfortingly into his stomach.  “But you haven’t depended on him in years, and even you must’ve noticed how little time you spend around each other these days.  You barely even say hi and bye anymore when you do catch each other in the mornings.”  He pauses.  “And I suppose I am partly to blame when it seems as if he can’t even bear to look at you, because you’re always carrying me around-”

“That’s not your fault!”  Stiles snaps, cutting him off.  “Just because he won’t believe doesn’t mean you don’t have the right to be- to be _real!_   What do grownups know anyway?  They’re all the same!  And if Dad can’t look at me because he doesn’t want to deal with being reminded of having a crazy son after going through a crazy wife, then- then- then our plans are still waiting for us, remember?  That’s why we started making money in the first place!  And the second I turn eighteen, we can be on the first bus outta this stupid _worthless_ town!”

It’s Pollux’s turn to fall silent, but only for a moment, and then he lifts his head to touch noses with Stiles.  “I love you too, Stiles.”

Stiles blushes bright red.  But he also gathers Pollux into his arms for a hug as fierce as the fox’s quiet words.

The two of them have always been all that either of them would ever need.

 

* * *

 

He goes to school.  At lunch, there’s no room at the table Scott is sitting at, boxed in with Allison on one side and Isaac on the other, and surrounded by lacrosse players and cheerleaders and other vaguely familiar popular kids.  Lydia’s there too, and Danny, although the former only pokes at her lunch while Danny oscillates between holding a conversation with whoever wants his attention and coaxing more food into Lydia.

So, same old.  It’s been like this for the past two weeks, ever since Stiles started attending school again after skipping a few days to rest up and stop looking like the poster boy for child abuse.  Nobody really pays much attention to him anymore now that Jackson is somewhere across the country and no longer around to lead them in their daily witch hunt, which Stiles supposes is better than having to go out of his way to avoid the idiots who want to beat him up for fun.  He actually doesn’t know why he still stays in the cafeteria after he finishes buying his lunch though.  Even surrounded by other students, Scott’s lovesick gaze never strays far from Allison – much less looks around for Stiles – which is… honestly a bit disturbing.  Is that what falling in love is like?  Really?  Hell, even Allison looks uncomfortable, though whether that’s because of Scott or because of the crowd, Stiles isn’t sure.  Maybe both, considering Scott did send him a few texts two weeks back, something about Allison wanting to break up but Scott willing to ‘wait for her’ because they were ‘meant to be’.

There were no more texts after that, and Stiles was too busy helping Peter to pay much attention to romantic drama anyway.

Either way, sometimes, Stiles thinks his younger self was on to something when he still thought girls had cooties.  At the very least, if he still thought that today, it would mean he would never fall in love and act like… like _that_.  Stiles can’t even really describe it.  He just thought – on the few occasions that he has thought about it – that the person he might fall in love with would be… would be special.  But _not_ in the Scott-and-Allison sort of way.  Stiles doesn’t want someone who only sees what they want to see in him, only wants one part of him and nothing else, not his mistakes, not his uglier sides, in love with an idealized version of whatever _they_ want him to be.  In his opinion, that’s not love at all, and if it is, then he wants nothing to do with it.

No, the kind of special he wants is more in the… _I believe you_ sort of way.  That’s what Stiles wants.  _I believe you_ , in any and every way that matters.  _I believe you, I trust you,_ and _I know you_ , before _I’m in love you_.  And since nobody will ever fit that bill, he’s safe.

Well.  There’s Peter, who might be getting to the first stages of that, but…

But it’s not like Peter counts anyway so who cares?  They’re unlikely to even _see_ much of each other now that Peter’s settled into his new life and can always just repay Stiles by sending a cheque or something.

 _Ugh_.  Whatever.  He’s wasting brainpower thinking about dumb things like that.  And if he keeps having to look at Scott trying to cuddle up to Allison, he might throw up his lunch.

 “Let’s eat outside,” Stiles suggests to Pollux, who’s riding around in his bag of course.  It’s nearing the end of April, still a bit chilly outside, but it’s not raining so Stiles doesn’t mind, and it would get him out of the cafeteria.

They settle in a corner of the empty courtyard outside, at one of the damp picnic tables.  Pollux prefers rabbit, mice on weekends, or birds, and berries and fish in-between, but he also likes curly fries nearly as much as Stiles, and Pollux is the only one Stiles is willing to share his favourite food with.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Pollux reminds him, pacing the length of the table and directing a disgusted look at some bird poop.  “Do you want to go out and track down the things you need to make that last dreamcatcher?”

Stiles nods in agreement, absently tickling Pollux’s nose with a piece of lettuce from his burger.  Pollux chomps down on it, quick as lightning, and manages to nip Stiles’ fingers while he’s at it, mock-growling at the back of his throat.  Stiles grins and returns to his burger.  “Sure, let’s do that.  We can meet up with Nissa and the others if they’re free.”

“Nissa, Nissa, Nissa,” Pollux parrots teasingly.

“And the others,” Stiles repeats, but his ears go hot all the same.  “Shut up!”  He adds, when Pollux starts snickering.

“It’s no wonder she asked her mom for a betrothal to you!”  Pollux cackles because he’s an asshole like that and _still_ finds this funny five years later.

“I said shut it, Lux!”  Stiles rolls of his eyes.  “I was like twelve.  And Nissa may have lived longer in fairy years but she’s still technically younger than me.”

“That’s why it’s so hilarious,” Pollux explains sagely, ruining it when he chortles again.

“It is _not_ ,” Stiles grouches.  “She’s just the first fairy we made friends with, that’s all.”

“ _You_ saved her life though,” Pollux stops laughing at him but his eyes still sparkle with mirth.  “And the fae queen is eternally grateful.  She might even grant that betrothal once you’re both a little older.  I mean, she’s already offered you immortality.”

Stiles makes a face.  “Don’t remind me.  I was sure she was going to toss me in a prison cell when I turned her ‘gift’ down.”

“She found it ‘charming’ instead,” Pollux chuckles.  “You can do no wrong in her eyes.  And she promised immortality would be waiting for you anytime you want it in the future.”

Stiles huffs, munching on a fry.  “Eternal youth.  Bleh.  Who wants to live forever?”

All at once, the mood sobers.  Pollux doesn’t mention it though, only sidling up and draping his tail around Stiles’ shoulders for a moment before sitting down beside the lunch tray and tucking his paws in.

Stiles looks sidelong at the fox.  It’s the one thing they never talk about, the fae queen’s offer.  Stiles didn’t even know Nissa was royalty until he was suddenly dumped in the fairy realm, eternal summer everywhere when just a moment ago, he was ankle-deep in snow and, you know, _in Beacon Hills_ , and surrounded by pretty people with fairy wings all pointing sharp things at him.

It took some fast-talking, Pollux bit at least three guards, and Nissa was screaming shrilly for everyone to stand down _or she’ll set everyone on fire_ , before the queen finally intervened, and the situation was explained.

It certainly helped Stiles’ case when – after being offered a boon for saving the queen’s youngest daughter – all Stiles asked for was to be sent home because his dad was expecting dinner on the table so he couldn’t be late.  Also, Nissa refused to let go of his hand, apparently afraid someone would behead Stiles or something the moment she was separated from him.

“You didn’t tell Peter who Nissa was,” Pollux remarks out of the blue.  “Or that Chante and Caliphe were her ladies-in-waiting.”

Stiles shrugs.  “It never really came up, did it?”

Pollux twitches an ear.  “Hm.  I suppose.”

Stiles rolls his eyes again.  “And even if it did, I wouldn’t betray them like that.  You don’t go around telling people someone is royalty.  They’re more likely to get taken hostage and used as leverage or assassinated or whatever that way.”

“True,” Pollux agrees, pausing to open his mouth for a curly fry.  “And I didn’t say you would.  Betray them, I mean.  Obviously you wouldn’t.  But I thought you might think about it at least.  You’re different with Peter.”

Stiles blinks, half his last fry hanging out of his mouth.  “…Wha-?”

The bell rings.

Pollux rises lazily to his feet, stretching once before nudging Stiles’ arm.  “Time for class.  Finish your food.”

Stiles blinks again.  Then he finishes his food.

Nope, not thinking about it.  At least Pollux isn’t petitioning for Peter’s death anymore.  For now.

 

* * *

 

Stiles spends Saturday and Sunday running around the palace garden maze with Nissa, Chante, and Caliphe.  They’re joined by a few others once word gets out that the royal family’s human knight is in the realm again because even after five years, there are still a lot of fairies who are curious about him, and they ask the most random things about the human realm.  Stiles had one fairy brandish an old toilet plunger at him once, enquiring about what humans used this weapon for.

Yeah, that was a weird day.

Stiles adores the palace maze because it’s nothing like the mazes in the human realm.  For one, it’s _sentient_.  The hedges are always moving, and sometimes, you have to threaten them just right to get them to move out of the way (Nissa).  Other times, gentle coaxing gets the plants moving more effectively (Stiles, who doesn’t believe in setting the whole maze on fire when it doesn’t do what they want it to do).

Mostly though, they try to find their own way through, because – for another – fairy mazes are like several obstacle courses pieced together.  Everything from scaling stairs made of knitted vines to beanstalk slides are fair game.

Stiles can’t fly so Nissa, Chante, and Caliphe considerately tuck their wings away too whenever they have to climb something, and they giggle their through the maze as the maze does its level best to confuse them.

It lets them out around dinner time each day, presenting Stiles with a stalk of delphinium hybrids on Sunday for playing, which isn’t added to the pouch of odds and ends that Stiles gathered earlier whenever something caught his eye for the dreamcatcher.  The flowers will go in his room.

Nissa has some diplomatic meeting to observe early the next morning in her mother’s court so she has to go to bed early, much to her grumbling dismay, but Stiles just waves, and Pollux herds all three in the direction of their bedrooms before circling back to join Stiles.

“You don’t have to walk us back, Han,” Stiles says, not for the first time as he wades out of the river and onto dry land in Beacon Hills.

“Her majesty commands it,” Kohan replies easily, also not for the first time, but he hovers above Stiles’ shoulder, something uneasy darting across his tiny face even as his hand clenches around the hilt of the sword at his hip.

“Han?”

“Darkness has encroached upon this territory, far more so than the last time I accompanied you back,” Kohan murmurs.  His brow is creased when he turns to Stiles.  “Are you certain we cannot persuade you to leave this realm for good?  You always have a place with us, my prince.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, hopping up the bank.  Pollux scampers on ahead.  “Don’t call me that.  And you ask that every time.”

“And I shall continue asking until you say yes,” Kohan counters, ferrying him towards the trees.  “And you are the queen’s ward.  No guard would dare address you otherwise, my prince.”

Stiles throws his hands up, and then throws himself up, catching a branch and effortlessly swinging himself into the trees.  Extended amount of time in the fairy realm always left him saturated with the land’s magic, just enough for him to jump higher, run faster, move quicker, for a couple hours after he returns home.

With a whoop, he begins leaping from branch to branch, tree to leafy tree.  Kohan keeps pace with him easily, flitting around him in classic single bodyguard formation as Stiles races through the treetops, the wind whistling in his ears.  Pollux is a blur down below, also that much stronger from his stay in the fairy realm.

Stiles clears the woods in one soaring leap, landing on the dusty road between Preserve and town as lightly as a cat just as Pollux tumbles out after him, both of them high on the speed of the race.

He spins to meet Kohan, who swoops out after them, subtle, fond amusement painting his sedate features.

“I can make it home from here!”  Stiles insists per usual, and normally, Kohan would reluctantly agree because most fairies didn’t like entering the more densely populated areas in the human realm.  Today though, the guard hesitates, scanning their surroundings before searching Stiles’ own face.

Pollux releases a sharp bark from the ground, and Kohan relaxes.

“Be safe, my prince,” The fairy says, returning to their script and bowing.

“You too!  ’Til next time, Han!”  Stiles waves before bounding off, knowing Kohan won’t leave until he’s out of sight.

They run all the way to town, Stiles taking to the trees on the side of the road again while Pollux weaves between them down below, grace and dexterity in every step, a ball of orange-red and flickering white in the shadows of the forest.

He bursts out of the last tree with a joyful laugh, flipping through the air before landing on hands and feet in the fiery light of dusk, Pollux right beside him.  He always forgoes shoes when he’s visiting Nissa and the others at their home so he’s used to running around without them.

“Hey Lux, do you want-” Stiles cuts himself off when Pollux snarls, baring his teeth at something behind Stiles.

Stiles turns, abruptly tense and poised to flee or hide, but when a shape that shouldn’t be there detaches itself from the shadows of a nearby tree, he’s somehow not surprised to see Peter Hale waiting for him.

“Are you _following_ me?”  Stiles demands incredulously, slowly rising to his full height.

Peter says nothing for a long moment, shrewd blue eyes that are just a bit too bright and a bit too eager for comfort sweeping over Stiles like a hot bath, and Stiles is suddenly acutely aware of the stray leaves in his hair and the specks of dirt on his feet and under his fingernails and the way he must look like a wild thing from the woods.  Even his eyes must still be glowing a little from the magic of the fairy realm.

He thinks about that.  But it’s just Peter.  And Stiles has never cared before, barely even noticed.  He glances down at Pollux.

“Come on,” He mutters, stooping a little to let Pollux hop into his arms.  “Let’s go.”

Pollux doesn’t look all that pleased but he does let Stiles carry him, and Stiles turns in the direction of the main part of town.

Peter falls into step beside him not five seconds later, although he does leave a good foot and a half between them.

“I stopped by your house,” Peter says by way of an explanation, which is unexpected.  “Yesterday and today.  When you weren’t home either time, I guessed you might be in the woods again.”

“Oh,” Stiles side-eyes him suspiciously.  “And what did you want?”

Peter hums vaguely and doesn’t actually give an answer, reaching over to pluck a leaf from his hair instead.  Pollux glares at the hand like he wants to use it as a chew toy.

“Your scent disappeared into one of the rivers,” Peter speaks again, and his gaze is suddenly that much more intent.  “I was worried you might’ve drowned.  Did you figure out a way to hide your scent?”

“Um, something like that,” Stiles shrugs, busying himself with letting Pollux up onto his shoulders to curl around his neck like a scarf.  They’re entering civilization now, dirt road becoming pavement.

Peter hums again like he knows Stiles isn’t telling the whole truth, but it’s not like it’s a lie either.  Going to the fairy realm _does_ hide his scent, mostly because he’s no longer around to _leave_ a scent.

“And how did you stumble on this?”  Peter’s fingers stop just shy of brushing against the petals of the delphinium hybrids sticking out of the satchel Caliphe lent him.

“Oh, well, you know,” Stiles scratches his head awkwardly.  “Wandering around in the woods.  You find loads of stuff that way.”

“Yes,” Peter agrees, voice smooth as silk.  “But I don’t believe I have ever come across flowers dipped in gold.”

…Ah.  Oops.  He forgot.  Fairy realm flowers are usually gilded with gold.  As it is, the blue-white petals and green leaves all have gold lines along their edges and veins.

Stiles remains uncomfortably silent, floundering for words in a way he doesn’t often.  He startles when Peter chuckles.

“Don’t look so wary, Stiles,” Peter admonishes, both hands retreating into his pockets.  “I won’t push.  For now.  Mysteries are always best when savoured, and I don’t think I’ve ever come across a mystery quite as fascinating as you.”

“So you wanna savour me?”  Stiles blurts out stupidly and almost slaps himself.  He can almost hear Pollux roll his eyes.

Peter _grins_ , all wolfy teeth and wicked mischief and a thrilled sort of hunger in his too blue eyes.  “Oh, Stiles, you have _no idea_.”

Stiles goes pink, probably to the tips of his ears.  He speeds up, grumbling under his breath about dumb werewolves.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the dumb one this time,” Pollux snarks, and Stiles splutters indignantly.

Maybe if he hurries down the sidewalk fast enough, Peter will leave him alone.

A gaggle of boys from school are jostling their way up the street on the opposite sidewalk, rowdy and chatting loudly amongst themselves.  They spot Stiles just as Stiles is hissing at Pollux to quit switching sides, _you traitor_ , and they can’t cross the street with the bustle of cars coming and going but they can certainly point and snigger.

“Hey, it’s Loony Tunes!”  One of them shouts.  And another hoots out, “What happened to your shoes, Stupinski?  Lost ’em in Crazyland?”

“Nah, he must’ve forgot ’em in the nuthouse he escaped from!”

And they all crack up like they’ve heard the funniest joke in the universe.

Stiles is so used to people’s crap that he barely hears it anymore, much less registers the juvenile insults.  He’s far more occupied with arguing with Pollux’s “You practically walked into that one.”, which okay, that might be true but shouldn’t Pollux bite Peter for it anyway?

“Not when you’re flirting so outrageously,” Pollux mutters, which makes Stiles flush red all over again, speechless with… outrage.  Definitely outrage.

A reverberating growl coming from behind him, deep and guttural and _loud_ like a rumble of thunder rolling in, snaps him out of it, and when he turns, he’s met with the sight of Peter staring unblinkingly across the street like he’s three seconds away from another murder spree.

“Hey,” Stiles starts, and then stops because he… doesn’t actually know what to say next.  But the idiots across the street have all spotted Peter by now, and – one by one – they shut up.  Like they know, even without proof, that they’re courting death from an apex predator who won’t have any qualms hunting them down one dark night and leaving their cooling corpses in a dumpster come morning with their entrails ripped out.

“Hey!”  Stiles repeats, louder this time, and slowly, almost grudgingly, Peter moves his gaze from his prey to Stiles.  Said prey take the chance to scoot off.  Stiles takes a step closer.  “Quit it with the psycho routine, would you?  You’ve been murder-free for months; let’s not backslide now, okay?”

Peter, expression terrifyingly blank for another minute, flashes his eyes once before remarking with deceptive nonchalance, “They shouldn’t get away with that.”

Stiles shrugs.  “It happens… well, a _lot_.  We don’t really care anymore.  I mean, if they try to _hurt_ us, then me and Pollux always get back at them.  That was usually just Jackson and his cronies though; they were stupid like that.  Now that he’s gone, nobody really bothers us, aside from the insults, and let’s face it, they’re never gonna win a medal for that level of smack talk.”

Peter snorts but the muscles in his shoulders aren’t as bunched anymore, and he doesn’t seem quite as likely to go after those boys.

 They walk the rest of the way to Stiles’ house in a more companionable silence.  The Sheriff is back in town but at the station again so the driveway is empty.  Stiles’ jeep is parked out front, though still more than a little banged up because he hasn’t taken it for repairs yet.

He hesitates as he nears the front door, exchanging a look with Pollux, who sighs but doesn’t say anything, so Stiles turns to Peter, who quirks an eyebrow when he meets Stiles’ gaze.

“Dinner?”  Stiles offers.

Peter smiles, triumphant and pleased in turn.  “I’d be delighted.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**
> 
> Delphinium Hybrids – big-heartedness, fun, lightness, and levity


	39. Dioskouroi (Pt.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Spirit Animals, Preslash

 

“You better not be trying to lure me into your lair to fatten me up or something,” Stiles grumbles as he steps past Peter into the apartment.  Peter enters after him, shutting and locking the door behind them before ushering Stiles further in.

“I’m not _trying_ anything, dear boy,” Peter smirks, tossing his keys into a bowl before toeing off his shoes and shrugging out of his coat.  “You’re already inside, which means I’ve succeeded.  The fattening up will come naturally since food’s the entire reason you’re here in the first place.”

Stiles squawks indignantly and hugs Pollux closer.  “I knew it!  You want to eat me!”

Peter only answers by way of a fanged grin tossed over one shoulder, an expression that’s entirely too reminiscent of the wolf under his skin.

“Shut up,” Pollux advises in long-suffering tones as he wriggles until Stiles lets him down.  “You’re only digging yourself a deeper hole.  You know I could swear you aren’t usually this dumb.”

And with that said, he wanders off to explore, leaving Stiles spluttering behind him.

“I’m not being dumb!”  Stiles hollers after him.

“I’m sure you aren’t,” Peter drawls, and Stiles looks up to find the werewolf eyeing Stiles’ now empty arms before scanning the room, turning around just in time to miss Pollux’s tail tip disappearing down the hallway.

“Am I going to find my clothes shredded by the time you leave?”  Peter wonders out loud, sounding one part amused, one part intrigued, and one part plaintive.

“No- _o_ ,” Stiles rolls his eyes, kicking off his own shoes before following Peter into the kitchen.  “Lux isn’t a _cat_.”

“Small mercies,” Peter mutters, as if he thinks Pollux the cat would be worse than Pollux the fox.  It wouldn’t be.  It really, really wouldn’t be.  Pollux can cause so much more trouble than some flea-bitten furball, as Pollux would say – and has said more than once during Stiles’ I-want-a-pet phase several years ago.  And then proceeded to prove it by pranking Stiles’ elementary school to kingdom come, starting with Pollux leading a wild piglet rampage in the halls and ending with everyone hallucinating evil pink heffalumps who called Pollux their lord and master in the Incident of 2004 that anyone who witnessed it was still too traumatized shitless to talk about to this day.  No one even thought about blaming Pollux (except Stiles).  Everyone blamed Stiles.  No one could prove either.

Peter side-eyes him a bit when Stiles cackles to himself.  Stiles ignores him.  That was an awesome day.  Stiles was the only one exempt from the prank so he got to appreciate the glory of it from beginning to end and bask in the aftermath of partaking in Pollux’s crazy.

“Lux and I would make good supervillains,” He tells Peter.

“Well, you certainly have the laugh down,” Peter acknowledges dryly without missing a beat, like it’s perfectly normal for Stiles to aspire to becoming a supervillain, and there’s something unbearably fond in his eyes when he looks at Stiles.

Stiles quickly averts his eyes.  He… doesn’t know how to react to stuff like that.  Like _this_.  Because stuff like this didn’t happen until Peter came along.  It makes him feel awkward and stupid so he focuses on his surroundings instead.

For all that Stiles is technically funding it, he’s never laid eyes on Peter’s new digs until now.  It’s small but not too small, everything in earthy shades, with furniture that match but don’t scream opulence and rooms that look comfortable but don’t have that cozy lived-in feel yet.

All in all, the place is nice, and when Stiles and Pollux move out one day, if they ever get their own flat, it might very well look something just like this.  Pollux would approve; he’s always preferred the outdoors, and – even if he could afford it – Stiles himself would never want to live in some lavishly extravagant condo where the walls would loom coldly and the interior would be filled with things that boast money but wouldn’t hold any true meaning to him.  Or maybe he and Pollux will just travel in the jeep, sleep under the stars, go where the wind takes them.  Who knows.

After Stiles cooked dinner for Peter again last week, Peter insisted on inviting Stiles and Pollux over to return the favour and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so here they are, and once Peter finishes giving him a tour of the place, they settle in the kitchen where Stiles can curl up in a chair and watch Peter cook.

Stiles pulls up his knees and rests his chin on them as he watches Peter start on what looks to be beef stroganoff.  Peter doesn’t look like he minds.  The kitchen seems to be as much his domain as it is Stiles’, all calm proficiency and steady hands as he works, which is a pleasant surprise because Stiles can’t remember the last time someone cooked a halfway decent meal for him.  Well, he sort of can, back when his mom was still alive and sane, but the memory is fuzzy, he can’t recall if he was five or six, or even _what_ the last meal his mom ever made for their family was, only that it was delicious, especially when compared to the following year and a half, which were a blur of takeout and fast food until Stiles finally stopped burning himself or the food or the stove, learned how to read cookbooks and then improvise off of them, and started making regular – and far healthier – meals for himself and his dad instead.  His mom too, when she wasn’t so far gone that she’d just throw them back at him or refuse to eat at all, back before she had to be moved to the hospital permanently.

“Does Pollux want a portion?  I have fresh rabbit in the freezer if he doesn’t.”  Peter says offhandedly as he finishes cutting the roast into strips, and Stiles just kind of… stares.  When the silence stretches on too long, Peter glances over, blinks, and then his expression does something funny.

“What?”  Stiles blinks too, lifting his head.  “Yeah, he does.”  He pauses and then tries to mimic the same expression.  As he doesn’t know _what_ the expression _is_ , it probably comes out wrong.  “What.  What’s this supposed to be?”

Peter looks away, looks back, gaze lingering with strange intensity, and then he turns firmly to face the stove again without replying.  “I’ll save the rabbit for another time then.”

And that’s that.  Peter’s back very deliberately says he will not be explaining himself, and Stiles’ demanding scowl doesn’t work nearly as well when the person he’s directing it at isn’t even looking his way.

“He doesn’t have much,” Pollux announces, interrupting the conversation.  Or not-a-conversation, Stiles supposes, disgruntled.  If his fox notices anything amiss – and honestly, he always does – he doesn’t say, leaping onto the dining table instead.  “Clothes, toiletries, a laptop, basically all the things you watched him buy.  But he has books, in his room.  Old texts.  Texts on the supernatural.  _Magic_ texts.  And I’m pretty sure you can’t stroll into the local bookstore for those.”

Stiles hums thoughtfully, and as if sensing the different direction Stiles’ thoughts have taken, Peter turns once more, Pollux immediately catching his attention before his gaze flits to Stiles, one eyebrow lifting in question.

Stiles shrugs.  “You have books.”

Peter cocks his head, and his expression clears.  “Ah yes, I dropped by my family’s vault a few days ago.  It’s built under the school,” He adds upon seeing Stiles’ curious expression.  “I’ll show you sometime.  My family stored quite a few heirlooms in there, and the books I retrieved were ones I personally put in there for safekeeping.”

Stiles rocks back and forth in his seat, exchanging a glance with Pollux as Peter turns his attention back to their dinner.

He kind of wants to get his hands on those books.  But they’re family things, Before Fire things, and therefore _personal private heart-hurting_ things, and since Peter hasn’t offered, Stiles doesn’t really want to ask or snoop without permission.  He does have some limits, no matter what his father thinks.

So he drops the subject and doesn’t speak again until dinner is served.  Pollux gets a plate at the table too, along with a chair stacked high with cushions, and yeah, part of it is probably Peter wanting to study Pollux some more, but the werewolf’s also treating Pollux like he’s _real_ , and Stiles isn’t quick enough to hide his smile before Peter catches it.

Peter gets that strange indecipherable expression on his face again, although he recovers much faster this time and offers a smirk in return that doesn’t quite match the oddly soft look lingering in his eyes as he serves Stiles his dinner.

On his side of the table, Pollux snorts and mumbles something Stiles can’t hear before proceeding to ignore both of them in favour of his meal.

The beef stroganoff is delicious.  Stiles can’t blame Pollux for devouring his share and then demanding seconds, which Stiles asks Peter to get for him.  Peter seems to expect it anyway, and there’s more than enough.

“So, the summer break’s coming up,” Peter says between bites.  “Any plans?”

Stiles gulps down some water.  “Um, poker?”

Peter inclines his head.  “Work.  Anything else?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Hang out with Nissa and the others.”

Run some errands for the queen. Go adventuring in the fairy realm.  That’s basically how he spends all his summers, and he’s perfectly happy with it.

Peter nods again, thoughtful in a hawk-eyed sort of way, gaze so avid on Stiles that it makes Stiles want to squirm, just a bit.

He doesn’t.

“What about you?”  Stiles asks, as much to deflect as he honestly wants to know, much to his own surprise.  “What will you be doing?”

“Poker,” Peter echoes with a wry shadow of a smirk.  “Have to polish up my résumés and look for a job.”

Stiles nods back, and the conversation drops for a while after that, not picking up again until after dinner is finished and Stiles is helping Peter with the dishes.  Pollux has disappeared again now that his belly is full.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Peter says out of the blue as he sticks the last glass into the dishwasher while Stiles dries his hands.  “That dreamcatcher – did you make it?”

Stiles tilts his head in consideration.  And here he thought they were hardcore not talking about that.  Peter’s probably already pretty uncomfortable with depending on Stiles as much as he has.  “Well, yeah.”

Peter regards him with something like careful appraisal.  “…May I ask what you made it out of?”

Stiles blinks at him.  “Sure.  It’s not like it’s a secret.  Did you hang it in your room?”

“I did,” Peter smiles, and something about his face – the brightness in his eyes maybe – suddenly makes him look younger and less life-damaged as he all but hurries Stiles towards the bedroom.

The dreamcatcher dangles by the slightly open window, swaying in the breeze.

“Spider silk,” Stiles points to the white string.  “Birch for the frame.  And tail feathers of a roc.”  He glances back at Peter.  “It’s a simpler design than most but it should do its job.  I mean, do you still have nightmares?”

Peter stares at the dreamcatcher for a long moment, thousand-yarded and unseeing.  Stiles waits him out, keeping equally silent himself.

“No,” He finally says softly, turning to meet Stiles’ gaze.  “No, almost none at all.”

Stiles nods, satisfied.  He nearly jumps out of his skin when Peter’s hand falls on his shoulder.

“Will I get my throat ripped out if I scent you, Stiles?”  Peter asks, just like that, point-blank and looking him straight in the eye, and Stiles has absolutely no idea what to do except gape with frozen, unseemly shock.

“Uh-” He says intelligently.

Peter stares at him for a moment longer before slowly leaning closer until their cheeks glide together.  Stiles hasn’t the faintest clue what to do with himself but the werewolf doesn’t take it much farther than that.  He simply presses their cheeks together and breathes, quietly, steadily, close enough for Peter’s other hand to rest against the small of his back, but then all they do is stand there, as if Peter could spend the rest of his life like this and be perfectly content.

Stiles… has never been scented before in his life.  He’s never actually met a werewolf until recently despite knowing about them for years, and the most physical contact he’s had with them is getting almost killed by Scott, being shoved up against a wall by Derek, and randomly bullied by Jackson, Boyd, Erica, and Isaac.  And Jackson might not even count since he was entirely human first and then some mutated sort of werelizard every time he tried to smack Stiles around.

So all he does in the end is stand there too, hands at his side, staying very still and letting Peter sniff his fill.  Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t smell like roses or anything of the kind, and he’s equally sure that Pollux will demand he take a shower the moment they get home, but hey, being scented isn’t costing him anything at the moment, and Peter seems to need this, whatever this is supposed to be, so Stiles just shrugs inwardly and rolls with it.

He’s excellent at rolling with things, weird or dangerous or otherwise.

By the time Peter pulls back, gradual in a way that suggests more than a little reluctance, Stiles is pretty calm again himself.  He never reciprocated but his heart stopped galloping a mile a minute too once he adjusted to having Peter all but curled around him and breathing against his neck like some sort of very large, very cuddly feline.  Or maybe snake.  But snakes don’t give off heat.  So, cat.  Very big cat.

Peter blinks at her somewhat hazily, looking just a bit stoned honestly, blown pupils and all, but he shakes himself out of it after a moment, nails on a charming smirk, and steps back.

For a minute, neither of them says anything, Stiles because he doesn’t know _what_ to say, Peter because who knows why.  Then there’s a ripping noise that swings both their heads around towards the bed.

Pollux is sitting at the end of it.  And his claws have already torn a sizeable hole in the comforter.

“Pollux!”  Stiles yelps, torn between surprise and exasperation.

Beside him, Peter just heaves a sigh.  “Well, at least it wasn’t my clothes.”

Pollux sniffs haughtily, shooting a nasty look at the werewolf.  “He really should remember not to get above himself.”

Stiles groans before hurrying forward and scooping Pollux into his arms.  “We’re leaving, before you start knocking down walls or something.”  He glances at the comforter before turning sheepishly back to Peter.  “I can pay for that-”

“Technically, you already did,” Peter interjects in sardonic tones as he moves forward as well and passes a cursory eye over the damage.  “It doesn’t matter; it’s not even that bad.  I’m sure Pollux could’ve done far worse if he was so inclined.”

He looks at Pollux as he says this, and as far as Stiles can tell, the man is mostly just plain amused.

“So long as he’s aware of that,” is all Pollux mutters.

“I’ll walk you to the door, if you’re ready to leave,” Peter says abruptly, apparently dismissing the damage done to his comforter.  “It _is_ getting late.”

“Right,” Stiles nods in agreement and lets Peter accompany him to the door.  “Er, thanks for dinner.”

Peter tips another brief smirk at him.  “Least I can do.  And it would be a pity to deprive you of my cooking, don’t you think?”

Pollux scoffs.  Stiles rolls his eyes, but he also has to suppress a twitch of a grin.

“Night, Peter,” Stiles waves and heads for his jeep.  The werewolf doesn’t leave his rear-view mirror until he turns the corner down the road.

The dinner was nice.  The evening overall was nice.  Stiles supposes it did end on a somewhat weird note but, well, it could’ve been worse.  And who knows – maybe all dinner invites from werewolves end with some scenting.  It’s not like he has any experience to speak from.

“You’re taking a long shower when we get home,” Pollux orders from the passenger seat.

Stiles sighs.  Of course.

Still, it's been… nice.

 

* * *

 

Morning?  Not so much.

“ _Oh my god_ Derek _what?_ ”  Stiles growls, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes while sliding his window open.

Perched on the tree outside where he’s been rudely rap-rap-rapping because apparently no werewolf except Peter knows how to use the goddamn door, Derek scowls at him.  Well, the dude’s always scowling at him whenever Stiles is in the vicinity so that’s nothing new.

“Boyd and Erica are missing,” The werewolf grouches out.  One thing that can be said for Derek – the guy doesn’t beat around the bush.

Stiles squints, the morning sun in his eyes.  He shrugs one shoulder.  “Okay.  And?”

Derek frowns even harder.  His eyebrows are very much Not Happy.  “There are scents in the woods.  I think someone took them, and I’m pretty sure they’re still in Beacon Hills, but I can’t find them.”

Stiles shrugs again.  “Alright.  _And?_ ”

Derek’s jaw works.  “…You said, before, that… Pollux hacked that CCTV system.  Can he do it for the entire town?”

Stiles rocks back on his heels, brain finally engaged as he stares back at Derek.  “Let me get this straight – you’re here to ask for Pollux’s help ’cause you want him to hack every camera in Beacon Hills to track down your Betas’ kidnappers?”

A long silence ensues, followed by a grudging, jerky nod from Derek.

“You, or Pollux, I don’t care,” The werewolf says gruffly, and he almost seems embarrassed, probably would if there was anyone else around, because he doesn’t quite believe, not the way Stiles does or even Peter does.  Or maybe he wouldn’t be embarrassed if someone else was around.  If someone else was around, Derek wouldn’t ask at all.

Stiles cocks his head.  Then he looks over his shoulder at the fox curled up amongst the pillows, still mostly asleep.  “Lux?”

Pollux finally lifts his head and cracks a wide yawn.  Then he levels Derek with a cunning pair of eyes that gives no quarter.

“Well, that depends,” Pollux’s smile is all teeth.  “What will you give us in return?”

Stiles’ head dips as he turns to face Derek again, to translate, and the motion is timed just right to tuck an identical smile on his own face out of sight in the shadow cast by the curtain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	40. Venom Ridge (Pt.7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment of domestic fluff? Then again, this whole 'verse has been a rollercoaster of fluff all the way, with a side of mayhem and murder, so nothing new here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Fluff, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles, Dark Peter, Alpha Peter, Murder
> 
> Short and sweet this time. I really shouldn't even be writing considering I have an exam tomorrow but Steter is definitely way more interesting than my grammar class and I have very little self-control.

 

Peter kills Ennis and regains his Alpha status on a Tuesday afternoon.  His roar rings out through the woods of Beacon Hills and beyond, triumphant and thrilled, and Stiles laughs when the fully shifted wolf carefully bowls him to the forest floor before smothering him in his scent, twining _both_ their scents together as if they didn’t already smell ridiculously like each other.

They let the twins go, as promised, and as promised, they run straight out of town, never to return.  Ennis’ corpse cools on the ground right up until Stiles gives the earth a pointed prod, and it promptly opens up under the dead Alpha, swallowing Ennis whole and leaving no evidence behind of there ever having been a body there in the first place.

“How do you feel?”  Stiles asks once Peter has shifted back to human.  They’re still outside, Stiles sprawled on his back and cocooned under Peter’s bulk.

“…Whole,” Peter decides after a lazily thoughtful moment.  His head dips, and he nuzzles along Stiles’ jaw before smooshing his face into Stiles’ neck.  His voice is muffled when he speaks again.  “Did you know – I had the Alpha potential too?  I was born with it the way Talia was, the way Alice and Nathan weren’t.  But I was born too late, or too early, or just to the wrong generation; either way, I never even had a chance because my whole existence was an _accident_ , a _mistake_ , and it was understood that even before Talia was ever pregnant with her first child that I would be passed over.  And it wasn’t only that either.  I was a Hale, and that alone meant that they couldn’t just let me leave and build my own pack no matter how much they didn’t want me around.  And I was good with words and manipulation in a way that Talia never was.  I had all the qualities needed to make an excellent enforcer, and coupled with my lineage, they had to keep me.  Couldn’t have me going off and gathering a pack and then coming back and challenging them for the territory or even just overshadowing their reputation, could they?  Two Hale Packs would just be _asking_ for the wrong kind of attention, not to mention everyone would realize that our family wasn’t as problem-free and respectable and devoted to each other as the world thought we were.  And my parents and Talia wanted my skills to serve the pack alone, even if they scorned them too.  But I was _born_ with the potential to be Alpha, and to have that potential restricted, contained, _stifled_ , it was… I was an asset to my family, I did my job well, but it always felt as if some part of me was cut off from the rest, or as if a part of my wolf was chained down and locked away.”

He raises his head, and his eyes are a bright unrepentant crimson when he looks at Stiles.  “We don’t always need to kill another Alpha to become an Alpha.  Otherwise, passing the status from the Alpha to their successor within a pack would be a lot bloodier and a lot crueler.  The successor is groomed for the position, taught what they’ll need to know and – bit by bit – given more duties as they grow older, and then, provided that the Alpha isn’t killed by hunters or another pack or struck down by some other tragedy beforehand, when it’s time for them to step down and retire, the process is natural, and the Alpha power is transferred from predecessor to heir.  No parricide involved.

“But I spent my entire lifetime suppressing my potential,” Peter’s voice goes distant.  “My parents ordered it.  Then Talia ordered it too.  And then kept me on the fringes of the pack so that no one would be loyal to me personally.  Probably afraid of a coup or something similar.  My darling sister – both my sisters actually – made sure their children learned to do the same.”  He huffs a laugh, dark and harsh and not at all amused.  “On hindsight, it’s a wonder I didn’t slit all their throats in their sleep.”

A wounded silence ensues, followed by a surprised noise from Peter when Stiles slings his arms around the werewolf and pulls him back down.  Peter melts in the embrace, tucking his face back into Stiles’ neck, tangling their legs together.

“And that’s why you have to kill for it,” Stiles continues softly, combing fingers through Peter’s hair.  “Suppressing it like that, your entire life.  That’s why the Alpha status went to Laura instead of you even though you were older and more experienced, and the power probably would’ve went a long way to healing you if you’d gotten it.  And then your niece and nephew deserted you, which only slowed your healing even more.”

His arm tightens around Peter’s back, and for one wildly furious moment, he thinks about his magic and whether or not it would be possible to raise the dead, just so he can kill them all himself.

“Well, who cares about them?”  Stiles dismisses tersely.  “They’re dead, and you’re still alive.  That’s a win all by itself.  Plus you’re Alpha again.  Talia and Laura are probably spinning in their graves.”

Peter snorts, and he was already practically moulded around Stiles, but he somehow manages to lose even more tension now, the last of it leaving his frame, and for a while after that, they simply lie there on the grass, the tent on their left, the cliff edge on their far right, Stiles still running fingers through Peter’s hair.  It amuses him, how Peter always starts purring under his ministrations sooner or later, and it’s no different now.

Eventually though, they do need to get up.

“We can’t lie here all day,” Stiles sighs, nudging at Peter.

“Watch me,” Peter mutters back.  Stiles rolls his eyes but doesn’t let up with tugging on the werewolf’s hair until Peter growls, disgruntled, and finally levers himself off Stiles.

“So then,” Stiles sits up, absently patting at a few grass stains.  “According to Ethan, Boyd and Erica should be free and hopefully running back to Derek.  Or at least their respective families, or maybe the police station.  Unless they were caught again of course.  Only Ennis came after Ethan so at least Kali probably went after them.”

“If they got caught again, we aren’t helping them _again_ ,” Peter grumbles, although he slants a wordless question at Stiles, one that Stiles answers with a nod of agreement.  He’s fully onboard with that plan.  Who knows how much more dangerous it might be to save two possibly feral werewolves a second time?  Stiles doesn’t care enough to find out.  He’s all for risking his life for Peter, for his dad, for Scott and Melissa, even for Lydia, if only on account of whatever lingering affection he still has for her no matter how badly she and her (ex-)boyfriend tended to treat him, but certainly no one else.

“Then Kali and Deucalion are next,” Peter muses pensively as he hoists himself to his feet before holding out a hand for Stiles.  “It shouldn’t be too difficult to kill them now that they’re down to two, and they won’t see us coming either.”

Stiles lets the werewolf pull him up.  The sun is beginning to set.  Stiles should probably get started on dinner, and the two of them can talk future murder plans while they eat.  But before that…

“Hey,” Stiles tightens his grip on Peter’s hand before Peter lets go.  “Hey, Peter.”

Peter’s halfway facing the tent already but he turns back and blinks attentively at Stiles, one eyebrow lifted in enquiry.

Stiles dithers over what he wants to say, something that won’t come out and embarrass them both, and then he gives up and goes for the direct approach.

“You might’ve been an accident,” He tells Peter, meeting the man’s startled gaze evenly.  “But you were never a mistake.”

A deafening silence descends on them, and Stiles can feel his ears go hot as Peter just continues staring, unblinking and unreadable.  When it finally gets to be too much, Stiles clears his throat and starts retrieving his hand.  “Right, uh, we should-”

It’s Stiles’ turn to blink in bemusement when Peter tugs him close and drops a kiss on his forehead, a press of lips to Stiles’ head that lingers for a long, fragile moment, and it feels a lot like gratitude.

“Shall we get started on dinner?”  Peter offers when he pulls back.  He isn’t smiling but his eyes are a warm deep blue.

Stiles grins and bounces for the tent.  “I’m cooking!  What do you want?  We’re celebrating your return to Alpha-hood so you get to choose!”

He catches one last glimpse of Peter’s face before he enters the tent.  He doesn’t think he’s imagining the relaxed joy there, something that echoes in his own chest and thrums along the fledgling pack bond between them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	41. Silver Lining (Pt.3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Stiles go on a date. Possibly inevitably, someone tries to kill them. It’s still the best date Peter’s ever gone on. Now if only people would quit bothering them and let him date Stiles in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Alive Hale Family, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent, Hunter Stiles, Older Stiles, Original Character(s)
> 
> I find it hilarious that so many people seem to like Silver Lining’s version of Peter. Lovestruck Peter. I pretty much just tried to keep in mind that he’s younger and hasn’t lost his family so he wouldn’t be as broken or hardened as he is in canon, and also his family isn't quite as crap as I usually make them out to be, but he’s still Peter.
> 
> There’s been requests to make Silver Lining (and other ’verses in this collection actually) a full-length fic on its own but I don’t actually have anything planned, and even with just parts 1 and 2, there’s already a lot of expanding that can be done that I haven’t done, so – at least for now – it’ll just be little drabbles in this collection whenever my muse latches onto something.

 

“I’m here for Stiles,” Peter announces brightly, two cups of coffee in hand.

“I know.”  Watching Argent’s face sour is even more satisfying than Peter imagined it would be.

For a moment, it seems like the hunter isn’t going to let him in, but then – in the direction of the only other heartbeat in the hotel room – Stiles’ increasingly familiar voice yells, “Chris, if that’s Peter, you better not be threatening him!”

Peter smirks, wide and unrepentant.  Argent looks ready to smash his face in, or perhaps finish what his sister started and light him on fire, but after another beat of stony silence, the hunter finally steps back and lets him in.

The silence between them is tense at best.  Argent leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and settles down to give Peter the evil eye.

Peter smiles back as annoyingly as he can physically manage.  It always irritates Talia, and he’s delighted to find that it makes a minute twitch develop under Argent’s right eye.

“Okay I’m ready!”  Stiles announces, skidding into the room, and Peter automatically turns to face him, drawn like a wolf to moonlight.

Stiles’ hair is damp, presumably from the shower, and he’s dressed in jeans and a simple long-sleeved flannel shirt that really has no business looking that good on anyone but only serves to highlight Stiles’ deliciously lithe figure for Peter’s appreciative eye.  The stretch of his throat is beautifully pale, the deft, slender fingers that come up to rake back wet hair are enough to make a pianist weep with envy, and the delicate lines of his bone structure only serve to hide the predator lurking within their tenuous confines.

Peter has known this man for all of forty-eight hours and he’s already waxing poetic about him.  And he can’t even find it in himself to resent it.

“Stiles,” Peter greets, prowling forward a few steps towards the human and watching one corner of his mouth tip up in reply.  “You look well-rested.”  _And positively edible_.  “I hope your injuries aren’t bothering you as much?”

Stiles waves a dismissive hand in the air, and Peter smirks when he catches the younger man’s gaze lingering on the open v of his shirt for a few seconds.  There’s no change in his scent though, the spice of arousal never making an appearance, and even Stiles’ heartbeat remains steady.

And when he meets Peter’s eyes again after his lazy up-down scrutiny of Peter’s attire, Stiles’ regard is just as captivating as it was last night.

Peter wants to know all the secrets hidden behind that honey-amber gaze.  Wants to _keep_ that gaze on him and him alone.

But, all in due time.

“Your coffee,” Peter offers, extending one of the cups.

Stiles takes it with a noncommittal hum, and Peter stares in fascination as a faint purple light flares from Stiles’ hand and bounces from one end of the cup to the other before fading away.  When he looks up, Stiles has a crooked grin quirking one corner of his mouth.

Peter almost laughs.  So there’s a hunter in the Argent family who uses magic.  Then again, Stiles isn’t much of an Argent anyway – Peter already has proof of that.

“Shall we?”  He inclines his head at the door.

“You’ll be back by dinner,” Argent interrupts, very rudely and very unwelcomely in Peter’s opinion.

In Stiles’ opinion too, if the magnificent eyeroll is anything to go by.  “I am a grown-ass man, Chris.  If I wanna be back by dinner, I will be.  If I wanna stay out all night clubbing, I’ll do that.  Or if I wanna book another hotel room and fuck Peter into the mattress, I’ll do that too.”

Argent’s expression spasms with what looks like actual physical agony, and Peter has to suppress another delighted snicker even as a bolt of heat thrums through his body at the interesting images those particular words invoke in his mind.

“How presumptuous of you,” He purrs, paying no mind to Argent as he slinks a few steps closer to Stiles.

The glance Stiles slants at him from beneath dark lashes is as sly as it is coy.  “Oh?”

Peter grins with just a hint of fangs, swaying close enough to kiss.  “You’ll have to earn that right, sweetheart.”

The challenge lights a fire in Stiles’ eyes, and Peter has to hold back a shiver when hot breath whispers up his jawline.  “Well of course.  You’re a werewolf after all, so you know better than I do that half the fun’s in the _chase_.”

The hiss of the last word ends with teeth just barely grazing his ear, and a deep, rumbling growl rolls up from Peter’s chest, unbidden.  Stiles is already dancing out of reach, laughter in his eyes as he heads for the door.

“C’mon, wolfie,” The man sings, snagging a jacket off the back of a chair on the way.  “ _I’m_ not that easy either.”

Peter takes a deep breath, tells his dick to shut up and calm down, and then stalks after the horrible, wonderful tease.

“Bye, Chris!”  Stiles hollers back, and Peter tosses back a sarcastic wave of his own.

Of course, then he almost rips the hunter’s hand off when said hunter grabs him by the arm.

“I’m warning you Hale, if you hurt him-” Argent bites out in a tone low enough that Stiles won’t hear.

Peter yanks his arm out of the hunter’s grasp, countering with a sharp smile of his own that’s more teeth than humour.

“Now why would I do that, Argent?”  He volleys back, voice equally, dangerously soft.  “Nobody goes around discarding toys they haven’t broken in yet, and I’m certainly no different.”, and he gets the twisted pleasure of watching the hunter’s expression burn like the house his sister torched, like the other families that weren’t lucky enough to have Stiles’ intervention, an echo of the famed Argent cruelty that every supernatural creature with half a brain knows to guard against.

This one bears watching, for entirely different reasons than the ones for which _Stiles_ bears watching.  But then, Peter already knew that too.

He ducks out of the room before Argent can say another word, shutting the door behind him.  Stiles is waiting outside, leaning against the wall beside the doorframe.  His gaze is far too knowing for him to not have heard at least part of the exchange but he doesn’t mention it, taking a sip of coffee instead before pushing off the wall.

“So where are we going first?”  Stiles asks as he starts down the hall.

Peter falls into step beside him.  “Well, downtown is always a must.  We do have some lovely establishments for such a small town.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Peter takes Stiles on a whirlwind tour through the busier streets of downtown, pointing out his favourite diner, the gay club, their one and only authentic Greek restaurant, even the animal shelter.  They go back to the diner for lunch before continuing their date.

He loses Stiles in the secondhand bookshop to a dusty corner of old tomes, as he expected pretty much from the beginning, which is why that particular stop is their last one of the day.  The place is run by a witch though, Sophia, who – after about only twenty minutes – proves to be the first wrench in Peter’s date plans.

“He’s a _hunter_ ,” She hisses at him with more than a little venom, glaring hatefully in the direction of where Stiles is standing.  “Did you think my wards wouldn’t pick that up?  Get him out of my shop!”

Peter’s own eyes narrow.  “He’s no danger.  I wouldn’t have brought him here if I believed him to be-”

“Do you think I care what _you_ believe?”  Sophia scoffs, marching around the counter and swiftly making her way to Stiles.  “My agreement with Talia was for her pack to have top priority to my wares in exchange for a home here.  Hunters-” She reaches Stiles, who’s already turned, expression blank, an open book in his hands.  Sophia sneers.  “-are not welcome.  Get out, _murderer_.  And give that back.”

She snatches the book away from Stiles, who says nothing, but then she lashes out with one hand, fingers sparking red, either bold enough to try and curse him or perhaps throw him forcibly from her shop.

Peter lunges, eyes flashing, Talia and the alliance be damned.

He needn’t have bothered.

Stiles circles the witch’s wrist with a deceivingly gentle hand, cradling it like something precious.  One might even mistake the gesture for something affectionate, if not for the fact that the red sparks were completely snuffed the moment Stiles touched her, her fingers a hair’s width from his chest, and a simmering gold light that slowly creeps from fingertips to palm to wrist and beyond has taken their place instead.  Or actually…

Peter takes a closer look, an extra sniff.  That isn’t gold _light_.  That’s _literal gold_.

He glances at Sophia’s face.  All the colour has drained from it, and she can’t seem to tear her eyes away from Stiles.

Stiles, who smiles like a lover would, tender and soft and so deceptively kind that it sends a chill down _Peter’s_ spine.

There’s probably something wrong with him that the chill is as much excitement as it is fear.

“Have you ever heard of the Phrygian king Midas?”  Stiles enquires as if they’re having a friendly historical debate over lunch.  Sophia’s sickly white features take on an ashen grey tinge.  Her heartbeat trips over itself in her chest.  “Fascinating isn’t it?  To be able to turn anything you touch into gold.  If only he’d worded his wish a bit better.  Greed should never outweigh wisdom.”  And all at once, his grip tightens, his voice ices over, and his gaze hardens.  “And wisdom today, Lady Witch, says you should have simply asked me to leave.  Demanded even.  It’s your establishment after all.  But I’m afraid-” The gold’s spread all the way down to her elbow by now, eerily beautiful as it sparkles under the dim lights of the shop.  “-attempting to take my magic is going a step too far.”

Peter’s head snaps back to Sophia, a snarl curling his lips.  “She _what?_ ”

“Hm, yes,” Stiles let go, and the witch’s arm drops back to her side like a brick.  Or like half an arm that’s been turned to solid gold.  She staggers with the weight even as she scrambles backwards, the stench of fear souring the air.  “Stupid of her.  I’m sure she won’t make that mistake again.”

“I- I won’t!”  Sophia swears, bumping up against the wall behind her even as she clutches the tome to her chest like a security blanket.  “Just- Just leave!  Or if- if there’s anything you’d like to take-”

“Nah,” Stiles shoves his hands into his pockets and turns his back, already walking away.  “Sorry Peter but I don’t think this place is for me.”

Peter tucks claws into his palms, clenching and unclenching his hands as he stares unblinkingly at the shaking, terrified witch.  Sophia only barely meets his gaze after several long seconds.

“Do you have any idea what he is?”  She whispers.  “You’d best pray you and yours stay in his favour or Circe help us all.”

Peter stares for a moment longer, silent, watchful, wondering how angry Talia would be if he sinks his teeth into the witch’s neck.  Sophia doesn’t speak again.  Her gold arm remains lifeless at her side.

“Alpha Hale will hear about this,” are Peter’s parting words, with all the chilling weight of his position behind them.  He and his sister may not get along most of the time, but he’s willing to bet that between a witch with a collection of interesting and occasionally rare books that ultimately don’t hold a candle to the Hale library and an Argent who saved the lives of every member of their pack and who may not be a licensed hunter – which is arguably a good thing – but can still prove to be a formidable ally, even Talia would choose Stiles first.

“You’re not a druid,” is the first thing Peter says once he steps outside.  “They don’t have magic.  They just use runes and rituals and whatever else to perform magical feats.  And you can’t be a warlock, which is admittedly what I thought at first.  But you aren’t one, not when you scared Sophia that badly, and I don’t think witches or warlocks are capable of that level of magic, at least not without a lot of preparation beforehand.”

Stiles’ eyebrows lift briefly.  They set off down the street.

“I suppose saying she wanted to take my _magic_ wasn’t exactly the right word,” Stiles muses.  “It would be more accurate to say that she wanted to take some of my soul energy, which is something everyone has, and some magic users like to feed off it to boost their own power.  Unfortunately for… what was it, Sophia?  Unfortunately for her, she found a little extra something when she went digging.”  He side-eyes Peter with something like amusement.  “Does that help?”

Peter frowns.  It doesn’t really ring any bells for him.  But, “It will,” He promises, and Stiles smiles like he knows exactly why Peter didn’t force a straight answer out of Sophia, why he isn’t demanding a straight answer out of Stiles right now, because he wants to figure it out on his own ( _because the chase is half the fun, and no one in his entire life has ever understood that as easily and quickly and thoroughly as Stiles has_ ), and something in Peter warms in response.

“Will that arm of hers…?”  He trails off questioningly instead.

“A bit of a scare,” Stiles shrugs.  “I’m not really looking to cause trouble on Hale land so it’ll wear off in twenty-four hours.  Hopefully, she’ll take it as the warning it’s supposed to be.”

“Pity,” Peter growls, bristling at the very memory of Sophia trying to take what was never hers to take.  “… _Could_ you make it permanent?”

Stiles just laughs, and it’s answer enough, bright and genuine in a way that Peter wouldn’t mind hearing more often, especially if he’s the reason behind it.

“Come on, Peter,” Stiles bumps their shoulders.  “I’ve had enough of bustling civilization.  Show me the woods, if you’re allowed.  Show me where your wolf calls home.”

Peter grins, surprised and thrilled in equal measure, when he probably shouldn’t be either.  Far too besotted by half, his sister would mock.

But showing Stiles the forests he’s known and walked and breathed his entire life – that he can definitely do.

 

* * *

 

By sundown, they’ve done a meandering five-mile run, from tree line to a lake in the woods.  Peter chases him, Stiles uses his magic to disguise his scent before doubling back to ambush Peter, and Peter uses his familiarity with their surroundings and his own natural speed to dodge Stiles.  It’s a game of tag that most would say the two of them are too old for, but Stiles has never actually played tag in his entire life, and Peter never complains, he even seems to have fun, so Stiles continues taunting the wolf, and Peter continues attempting to jump him from behind.  They only stop once they’re breathless and hungry and the evening breeze sweeps in.  They picked up curly fries and burgers before they entered the Preserve, and a few stasis runes on the bag kept the food fresh, so they have dinner ready and waiting for them.

“You’re the first werewolf capable of a full shift that I’ve ever met,” Stiles admits once Peter’s human again and back in his clothes.

“It’s a generally rare ability amongst shifters,” Peter acknowledges, unwrapping his own burger.  “My Pack is rather fortunate in that regard.  Talia can do it too, Alice – my other sister, Addy’s mother – can as well, and Laura’s expected to achieve it in a few years.”

There’s an odd curl at the end of that sentence, distaste perhaps, or resentment, but when Stiles glances over at the werewolf, Peter’s face is determinedly neutral.

“I could say the same for you,” Peter continues in offhand tones.  “It’s not every day you meet an Argent who walked away from a life of hunting.  Before I met you, I wasn’t aware that was even allowed.”

Stiles hums in agreement.  “It usually isn’t.  But Gerard didn’t really get much of a say after I ran away on my eighteenth birthday and basically hitchhiked over to the other side of the country to start a new life.  I didn’t touch a single cent of the family money either.  I tutored other kids back in high school for pocket change, sold essays online for a bit more, and I picked up whatever job I could between rides until I made it to New York.”  He munches on a curly fry.  “It helped that I’m the youngest.  Kate was our dad’s protégé, his pride and joy even though Chris was born first.  Kate took after him most, in the whole kill-everything-that-isn’t-human department.  And, you know, my family’s a matriarchy so Kate would’ve been the next leader once she was old enough.”

“But Gerard was the one before?”  Peter interjects, his expression a curious combination of intrigue and solemnity.

Stiles takes a long draught of his soda.  “…Mom died about four years after I was born.  Car accident.  You know, if car accidents mean the car randomly blows up because of faulty wiring.  Anyway, Gerard took over after that, and the rest is history.”

A pensive silence ensues.  Peter doesn’t push for more sensitive answers, and Stiles doesn’t offer them.

“And what do you study now?”  Peter finally asks.  “Your brother mentioned something about you heading back to school before I left for the airport after you.”

“Cornell,” Stiles smirks.  “I major in Classics, so lots of history, Greek and Latin are a must, and did you know Cornell offers programs for those of the… supernatural persuasion?  So there’s mythology and research from there too.  And I want to teach, once I graduate.”  He cackles.  “Dad would hate it so much.”

Peter snorts.  “Flipping off the family – always a decent incentive.”

Stiles considers him for a moment.  “What about you then?  What do you do?”

“I recently graduated from law school,” Peter tells him, absently wiping his mouth with a napkin.  “A lawyer in the family can only ever help.”

Stiles studies him until Peter meets his gaze and quirks an eyebrow in question.

“But do you _want_ to be a lawyer?” He asks.  It seems like the most important question overall, so he isn’t quite sure why Peter’s suddenly gone still and intent, eyes a breath away from supernatural gold.

“I don’t mind it,” Peter eventually replies, leaning back on his hands to stare up at the darkening sky.  For a while, Stiles doesn’t think the werewolf will say anything else on the subject, but then, several beats later, Peter tacks on in a voice almost too quiet to hear, “I still have a couple sketchbooks from my high school days though.  Clothing design.  But it was just a hobby.”

He trails off.  Stiles lets the silence rest before nudging the werewolf.  “You should keep at it then.  Hobbies are good.  Everybody needs one.  And nobody says you can’t lawyer your way through life for your pack while carrying on with a side business in fashion design.  Heck, nobody says you can’t do what makes you happy while supporting your pack the way _you_ want to.  And if someone does say that, then they can shove their opinions where the sun doesn’t shine.  I mean if there’s one thing I learned from Gerard, it’s that your life isn’t worth living if someone else is telling you how to live it.”

He gets stared at some more, and Peter’s face does something strange, something Stiles can’t really decipher probably because he’s never been all that good at picking up emotions that aren’t anger or disappointment or something within the negative range.  He thinks it looks vulnerable though, whatever it is, just for a few short seconds, but Peter’s _definitely_ not the sort to show vulnerability so carelessly, so Stiles is fairly certain he’s mistaken.

“Eat your food,” Stiles prompts when the silence begins skulking a little too close to awkward territory.  Now that he thinks about it, here they are, two adults having what basically amounts to a heart-to-heart about their pasts in the middle of the woods.  And they haven’t even known each other for all that long.  It sounds absurd even just in his head.  But… Peter is disturbingly easy to talk to.

Hm.  Stiles will have to remember that.

Peter blinks out of whatever thoughts he was caught up in, and his expression quickly smooths over back to his typical standard charm.  He looks at what’s left of his burger instead like he’s forgotten about it, and then he polishes it off in one bite.

“This is not what I usually do on dates,” Peter says out of the blue.  At least it successfully changes the topic.

Stiles snorts.  “Alright, what do you normally do?”

“Dinner at a fancy restaurant, a movie,” Peter shrugs.  “A museum perhaps, or an art gallery.”

“I wouldn’t mind a museum,” Stiles says thoughtfully.  “And I think you’re the type to enjoy art galleries.  But I prefer staying in to watch a movie, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to afford the sort of fancy restaurants you’re talking about.”

“I could always pay for both of us,” Peter smirks before wiggling greasy fingers.  “But I can’t say I’ve ever had a date who preferred diner food in the outdoors.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow.  “Are you complaining?”

Peter’s smirk softens into a bemused smile.  “Well, it has its appeal.  We could make a proper picnic of it next time.”

“…Sounds good,” Stiles agrees, and maybe he should have added something more flippant, but Peter brightens in response, and Stiles can’t quite bring himself to throw in a joke.  Besides, _next time_ is… something he’s looking forward to.  He did rather enjoy himself today.

They don’t linger much longer after that, gathering up the trash and preparing to make the trek back into town.  They’re halfway out of the woods when a shift in the breeze puts first Peter on alert, followed a second later by Stiles, whose attention zeroes in on the suddenly far more blatant predatory prowl Peter’s gait has shifted into.

That’s more than enough of a clue for Stiles.  He lets his magic expand outwards, and a moment later, both of them are rolling out of the way, Peter to the right, Stiles to the left, just as the _thwip-thwip_ of two shots fired whistle through the air where their heads were not a second earlier and slam into the forest floor.

One swift glance between them is apparently enough.  Peter disappears into the shadows of the nearby trees while Stiles crouches down beside another one for cover.  He closes his eyes and _flings_ his magic in the direction of the sniper like the flat of a hand.  Finding him is easy, hunched in the boughs of a tree, but without any warning whatsoever, Stiles’ magic smacks the man right off his perch, sending him crashing to the ground in a rain of leaves and twigs and curses.

Stiles opens his eyes and rises to his feet.  By the time he makes his way to their hapless would-be murderer, Peter already has him pinned to a tree, clawed hand wrapped around the idiot’s throat.

Stiles merely stands there for several seconds, listening to the choking noises coming from the man.  He’s taller than both Stiles and Peter, though not by much, with a head of brown hair and grey eyes that are currently bulging with lack of oxygen.  Peter seems perfectly willing to let him suffer for a while.

“You’re a long way from home,” Stiles says at last.  “Edmond.”

Peter’s grip loosens just enough for the hunter to talk, even as Beta gold eyes flicker between them.

Edmond sucks in a hacking breath before spitting out, “You are dead to the family, Stiles.  The order is out.  Gerard will have your head for siding with _monsters!_ ”

A moment later, he’s scrabbling uselessly at Peter’s hand again as the werewolf cuts off his airflow once more.

“I take it you know him?”  Peter enquires sardonically, disdain dripping from every word as he eyes the hunter the way one might look at dog shit at the bottom of one’s shoe.

Stiles sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.  “You could say that.  Peter, meet Edmond Argent.  He’s one of my cousins from France.”  He drops his hand and looks at Edmond again before heaving another sigh.  “I’m afraid we’re gonna have to put that picnic on hold.  It looks like backlash has already caught up with me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	42. there’s a ghost on my shoulder (and she refuses to leave) (Pt.3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection and murder plans.
> 
>  
> 
> (Now a separate fic. **[Chapter 4 is here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8244254/chapters/18892051).** )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Ghost Laura, Preslash

 

“So what are we gonna do about the Alpha Pack?”

Five pairs of eyes turn expectantly to Stiles.  Stiles squints back at them around a spoonful of ice-cream before wondering out loud in garbled tones, “‘We’?  What ‘we’?  Where did this gung-ho teamwork attitude ‘we’ come from?”

They’re all still in Peter’s apartment, same day and everything, except it’s nighttime now, Peter hasn’t kicked them out yet, and Boyd and Erica have called their respective parents, citing sleepover with Stiles, which technically isn’t _un_ true since they do plan to sleep over at Stiles’ place once they get there.

Aiden and Ethan have been sent packing with minds that have been adjusted to remembering nothing but a day of boring stakeout outside a block of apartment buildings.  Stiles even made sure they no longer knew which apartment Peter lived in, and then he proceeded to ward this particular unit to the nines.  After all, what’s the point of wasting energy chasing off the Alpha twins if they can just come back anytime?  Stiles might as well cover all his bases, which means no one who doesn’t already know the address – or is told the address by Peter, the owner of the place, or Stiles, the one who raised the wards – will be able to find this place, and they won’t know _why_ they can’t find it either.

Peter stared at him the entire time Stiles was bloodying up the four cornerstones of his flat.  Stiles ignored him.  If the guy wanted to make sure he wasn’t adding something nefarious to the wards, well, it’s not like Stiles wouldn’t have done the exact same thing in his place.

“Come on, Stiles,” Erica flips an impatient hand in the air.  “We all know you’re not gonna just let McCall deal with the Alpha Pack on his own when they go gunning for him.”

“Yeah, and?”  Stiles shrugs, scraping the bottom of his bowl with his spoon.  “That’s my problem.  I’ll deal with it.”

He stares into what’s left of his ice-cream.  He _will_ have to deal with it, if only because Scott won’t.  He’s obsessing over Allison again – not that he ever stopped – and even once he learns about what the Alpha Pack wants, Stiles highly doubts his best friend will do… _anything_ about it.  Or at least anything effective.  The Alpha Pack’s already proven themselves capable of torturing teenagers, which is arguably worse than just outright killing them.  There’s going to have to be a more permanent solution, and when Stiles says permanent, he means of the deadly kind, which is something Scott will never do.

Stiles’ mouth twists bitterly.  He loves Scott, he does, but Scott is… Scott is the worst kind of hypocrite out there.  He sold Derek out to Gerard and was literally carrying out premeditated murder against the geriatric psycho but he didn’t deal the final blow, choosing to be merciful instead at the last minute all because Gerard was incapacitated, and that – in Scott’s mind – means he’s still the good guy.  If someone else blew off Gerard’s head in front of him, finished the job for him right then and there, Scott would’ve been horrified.  Would’ve condemned them as the bad guy.

It’s the same with Peter.  Scott was fully willing to kill Peter for his own gain, would have if Derek didn’t get there first, and yet he condemns Peter for the deaths on _his_ hands, condemns even Derek for trying to manipulate Scott into siding with him against his uncle, and that’s just-

Sometimes, Stiles wants to yank out his own hair in sheer frustration when he thinks about Scott’s double standards, especially because sooner or later, those double standards are going to have consequences that none of them will be able to handle.  That they’ll regret.  That will probably get them killed, if not worse.

It reminds Stiles though – he needs to hunt down Gerard and put as many bullets into him as it takes to make sure the old bastard’s down and out for good.  He doesn’t need a Take Two coming back to Beacon Hills for revenge or whatever.  And he’ll need to do the same with the Alpha Pack since it’s pretty damn clear that they’re not just here for a vacation.

“You’re totally plotting evil things without us,” Erica observes, and when Stiles looks up, he finds the rest of the table staring at him over their own ice-cream bowls with varying degrees of interest.

Stiles rolls his eyes and polishes off the last of his ice-cream.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do,” Erica bounces in her seat.  “And you can include us, you know?  Well, me at least,” She amends, exchanging a glance with Boyd.  “And Boyd.  We can help.”

Stiles snorts.  “With what?”

“With whatever you want to do to the Alpha Pack,” Boyd interjects calmly, and he looks at Stiles like he knows exactly what Stiles wants to do to them.

Stiles stares back, at all of them, at Boyd and Erica who seem ready to march out and strong-arm another pair of killers if need be, at Cora who’s wearing her perpetual unimpressed expression but looks equally attentive, even at Peter who simply smiles, sly and sharp and just shy of hungry.

“You can depend on them,” Laura says softly from somewhere behind him, and Stiles almost cracks up laughing.

Because he can’t remember the last time he depended on anyone for anything, not when it really counted.  If Boyd and Erica refused to go get Ethan earlier, Stiles would’ve been fully capable of going to get the Alpha douche himself.  If Scott didn’t come in time with that bullet, Stiles would’ve been fully capable of cutting Derek’s arm off himself.

(When the Sheriff couldn’t pull himself out of his latest bottle or couldn’t – _or wouldn’t_ – come home for days on end, Stiles was fully capable of taking care of himself.  When Scott hung up on him while Stiles was calling him for help, Stiles was fully capable of keeping himself and Derek alive.  When Scott forgot him in favour of another date with Allison or bro time with Isaac, Stiles was fully capable of entertaining himself.  When no one came to save him that night he was kidnapped, Stiles was fully capable of limping his way home on his own.)

(He’s such a self-pitying mess, isn’t he?)

“I’ll think about it,” Stiles grunts, which is to say he probably won’t, _ever_ , because he doesn’t need a couple teenagers and possibly an ex-serial killer committing murder with him, but _saying_ it does its job in getting these idiots off his back.

He’s always been an unrepentant liar anyway.

“Come on,” Stiles clambers to his feet and heads to the sink to deposit his bowl.  “It’s late, and we have school tomorrow.  Time to go.”

Peter sees them to the door.

“So, we should do this again sometime,” The man quips with a smirk, gaze as avid on Stiles’ face as it’s been every other time he’s looked at Stiles today.  Stiles might even go so far as to say Peter’s _always_ looked at Stiles like this, like there’s something about him that fascinates the werewolf more than anyone or anything else in the vicinity at any given moment.

Which is not actually a good or healthy thing, however flattering it might sound.  And it’s only gotten worse after everything that’s happened in the past twelve hours.

“We really, really shouldn’t,” Stiles mutters, raking a tired hand through his hair.  He doesn’t like to admit it but all the magic he used today has drained him quite a bit.  The mountain ash was easy, the runes too, on both the twins and the flat; it was the repeated mind magic that’s biting him in the ass now.

It rankles, honestly.  He’ll need to work on his stamina.  Being a Spark may make wielding magic easier but he still needs to put effort into it.

He flicks a glance at Boyd and Erica, who are several steps ahead, making for the stairwell.  Laura hovers in the corner of his eye.  Cora is somewhere inside.  He looks at Peter again and sighs.  “Try not to kill anyone.  Try not to die.  See you ’round, Peter.”

He leaves.  Peter’s eyes follow him until they can’t anymore.

 

* * *

 

“So now what?”  Laura asks the next day.  They’re – well, technically just Stiles – sitting in Econ, Finstock is ranting up at the front, and Scott is trying to catch his eye from across the room where he’s sitting with Allison and Isaac.

Stiles deliberately came in thirty seconds before the bell rang, evil-eyed a kid out of the seat closest to the door, and is even now ignoring Scott’s disappointed puppy-dog eyes.  No matter how many times his best friend asks, Stiles’ answers about Boyd and Erica aren’t going to change, and he has zero patience left for fielding Scott’s questions.

It’s quite possible that Stiles is a bitter grudge-holding asshole, but he figures he has that right considering the first time Scott has talked to him since the fiasco with the kanima and Gerard – which was last April, and now it’s September – is to interrogate him about how Boyd and Erica escaped and why they suddenly seem to be friends with Stiles now.

Stiles is well aware that nobody picks him.  Nobody consciously chooses to stay with him.  His dad’s stuck with him because he’s _Stiles’ dad_ , and even Scott was stuck with him way back in elementary when most of the student body sneered and refused to be friends with the asthmatic kid who couldn’t play fifteen minutes of just about any sport without wheezing for breath, always puffing away at his inhaler.  It was uncool.  But Stiles knew better than just about anyone that sickness – in any form – is no laughing matter, and he was the only one who went after Jackson and broke the idiot’s nose for stealing Scott’s inhaler.  Apparently, that was grounds for friendship because Scott started following him around after that.

Scott has options now though, especially with Jackson no longer around to spearhead the bullying against him.  Perfect health, athletic physique with the strength and speed to match, hot girlfriend, lacrosse captain – those things look good on any high school résumé.

So Stiles can’t even say he’s particularly surprised that Scott’s drifted away from him.  Nobody picks him.  Nobody chooses to stay with him.  He’s long since accepted that as a fact of life, and instead, he poured all of himself into the one person who at least gave Stiles and all his quirks and weirdness a chance.

But he’ll be damned if he lets anyone – even Scott – use him and then forget him again once they no longer need him.  Even Stiles has his pride, and yeah, knowing Scott, the guy’s probably completely oblivious to what he’s doing, to how Stiles feels, to the canyon that’s opened between them in a way that Stiles never would have thought possible once upon a time, or maybe Scott’s convinced himself that there’s a perfectly good reason for their lack of interaction these days, not to mention Stiles hasn’t exactly confronted him about it either.

But that’s intentional, on Stiles’ part.  Maybe it’s stupid.  Maybe it’s childish.  It’s probably both.  But bringing up the matter first feels a lot like losing, like giving in, like crawling back after being rejected, like admitting _he’s_ in the wrong when he _isn’t_ , because it’s not _Stiles’ job_ to make sure Scott gives him the time of day, to remember they’re _friends_ and that’s supposed to _mean something_.

Nobody treats Stiles like that and gets away with it, not even Scott.  Stiles isn’t that kind.  Isn’t that forgiving.  Isn’t that lenient.  So the resentment festers, the distance grows, and even if that leaves him friendless and alone, he’d rather be that than trailing after Scott, lapping up whatever attention Scott deigns to give him when the werewolf teen happens to remember his first friend, but feeling like he’s invisible or unwanted the rest of the time.

He gets enough of that from his dad.

Still, even if he’s avoiding Scott these days, being bratty and unhelpful because it’s a way to get back at Scott without _actually_ _hurting Scott_ the way Stiles knows he could if he really puts his mind to it, he doesn’t want Scott _dead_.  The dude’s still the closest thing he’s got to a brother.  His closest and only friend, once if not anymore.  Which means Laura’s question is legit, and Stiles needs a plan, preferably with several contingencies lined up behind it.

He has a feeling there’s going to be a lot of dead bodies by the end of this.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is tempted to go after Gerard first.  He’s looked, of course; he’s had all summer to dream about stabbing that bastard in the face despite spending the majority of his time on furthering his magical education, and the memories of his own little torture session at the psychotic bastard’s hands is more than enough incentive, but Chris Argent’s hidden his father well.  There’s no paper or electronic trail to follow, and Stiles is still trying to figure out tracking spells.

But now, from an objective, logical standpoint, the Alpha Pack is the bigger, more immediate threat.  The last time Stiles saw Gerard, the guy was puking up black goo and couldn’t even walk.  He’ll keep.  The Alpha Pack won’t for much longer.

Fortunately for him, Stiles has the perfect spy.

“They’ve been talking about killing a few of you,” Laura reports after her latest surveillance mission at the abandoned warehouse that the Alpha Pack has moved to ever since Stiles broke into the bank.  “People closest to Scott.  A couple dead friends will have him running scared, maybe turning to Derek for help.  My brother more than likely won’t help him after Scott served him up to Gerard like a lamb to the slaughter-” Her expression darkens.  “-or even if he does, it’s not like Derek can do much anyway.  He can’t take down five Alphas, and he doesn’t know much more about the Alpha Pack than Scott does.  Deucalion is banking on all of that resulting in a kid who will be a lot more susceptible to his… guidance.  If Scott thinks it's the only way to save the rest of his friends and even his mom, he’ll do whatever Deucalion wants.”

Flat on his back on his bed, Stiles hums and stares thoughtfully up at the ceiling.  “…Aiden said that he and Ethan were basically at the bottom of the food chain in their pack, right?”

Laura floats down to sit cross-legged next to Stiles.  “Yeah.  Which isn’t really a surprise.  They’re the youngest, probably the weakest, and I don’t know Kali or Ennis personally but I’ve been watching them – Ennis is more violent than Kali, but Kali is more sadistic, and neither of them are the type to let a couple of teenagers stand on equal footing with them.  Plus the twins were the last to join.  Kali and Ennis only follow Deucalion because Deucalion is stronger than them, and he’s the one who recruited them in the first place.”

Stiles chews on his bottom lip.  “You told me he used to be different.  Deucalion I mean.”

Laura nods.  “He was.  I didn’t know him like my mom did obviously – they were friends – but he and his pack were invited over for dinner a few times, and our packs had a decent alliance going.  He was nice to my younger relatives when they were around, calm, quiet without being antisocial or anything.  He could carry a conversation.  He seemed like a good Alpha.  Very British too, if that makes any sense.  He loved his tea.”  She snorts.  “Then he went to that peace talk with Gerard and came out a different man.”

Her lips twist with a sardonic sort of amusement that reminds Stiles more of Peter in that moment that anyone else.  “Hatred changes people.  Never for the better.”

Stiles eyes her for a long minute but says nothing.  Sometimes, he wonders if it would make things better or worse if Laura could actually have a sit-down with her uncle and hash out their unresolved issues once and for all.

“Does it make a difference?”  Laura asks, peering down at him.  “Knowing what kind of person Deucalion used to be?”

Stiles shrugs.  “Not really.  Maybe he can be redeemed, maybe not.  But I’m not a priest, and he’s certainly not looking for absolution.  All I know is that he’s capable of butchering entire packs and torturing teenagers, and he’s a threat to Scott.  That’s _all_ I need to know.  He’s fucking around in territory that isn’t his – that’s enough grounds for execution, isn’t it?”

He looks at Laura.  Laura blinks back once and slowly smiles, the curve of it just shy of bloodthirsty.  At the end of the day, no matter what her state of existence is now, she is still a true born werewolf, and this is the land her family has held and guarded and lived in for centuries.  “Yes.  Yes it is.”

Stiles nods.  “Okay.  Then, on a scale of one to ten, how hard do you think it would be for the twins to kill the other Alphas?”

Laura’s eyes widen, but then she cocks her head in thought.  “… _All_ three of the other Alphas? I’d say an eleven.  Even two is pushing it.  But one?  I’d give it a decent three, maybe four, so long as they’re joined together, and the Alpha they’re going to kill can’t be expecting the attack either.  But the twins will never get the drop on Deucalion so it’ll have to be either Kali or Ennis.”

She gives him a searching look.  “Why?  What are you planning?”

Stiles absently flexes his fingers.  “My magic… is still in their heads.”

Laura goes still.  “…Oh.  _Oh._ ”  She pauses.  “So, hypothetically, if you give them the kill order…”

“They’ll go after the other Alphas,” Stiles finishes.  “And probably get themselves killed in the process, but that’ll be three Alphas down.”  He frowns.  “The thing is, I don’t know how far I can push until their brains start fighting back.  Simple commands like ‘sleep’ are easy.  Small illusions that play out exactly the way they’re expecting is easy too.  Aiden knew he and Ethan were in danger.  Doesn’t take a very far jump to think that I’d kill his brother to get him to talk.  But commands that go directly against what they want to do…”

Laura props her chin in folded hands.  “So what you’re getting at here is the strength of their pack bonds.  If they really consider the others to be close packmates or something, they’d struggle harder.”

“Right,” Stiles agrees.  “But if they’re treated as the muscle and all-around pack equivalent of gophers, then even if they don’t _want_ to, they’ll still do it.”

“The second seems more likely, from what I’ve observed,” Laura offers.

“Which is good for us,” Stiles’ frown deepens.  “But then there’s the matter of the others being higher up on the hierarchy.  I mean if Deucalion or even Kali or Ennis catches them with an Alpha command, would that stop them?  I don’t know that much about mind magic yet so I can’t exactly plan for any of that.”

He stops again, mulling the plan over.  “Still, can’t hurt to throw the twins at them and see what happens.  Worst case scenario, they don’t manage to kill anyone and Deucalion realizes someone’s whammied them, but I erased their memories of most of what happened yesterday so they won’t know it was me, even if Deucalion does the whole claw-neck memory thing because the memories just _aren’t there_ anymore.  I’ll still have the element of surprise on my side if I have to go after all of them myself.”

“You could always try and catch Kali or Ennis,” Laura suggests.

“I couldn’t,” Stiles shakes his head.  “They’re a lot harder to get to than the twins since they’re almost always holed up inside these days, and after the bank thing, they’re probably a lot more cautious.  And they’re more experienced too, so they’d be stronger, faster, probably smarter.  It’s more trouble than it’s worth to try, and from what you’ve told me, Kali and Ennis at least are closer to each other and even Deucalion than the twins are.  Turning them against each other won’t work if I can’t even make the twins do it.”

They’re both silent for a while.

“Then again,” Stiles speaks up first.  “Maybe I’m complicating this too much.  I could always just wait until all five of them are back in the warehouse, then circle the place with mountain ash and light the whole building on fire.  With you there, they won’t even hear or smell me coming.”

“…Efficient,” Laura concedes.  She tips a strange smile at him.  “You can be a cruel boy, you know.  Force two of them to commit suicide by murder or burn them all to death.”

Stiles turns onto his side, tucking one arm under his head as he pins Laura with a flat stare.  “If I’ve somehow given you the impression that I’m a _nice_ guy, I can assure you, it was an accident.”

Laura shakes her head and laughs.  “You’re nice to the people you give a damn about, Stiles.”  She considers him for a moment.  “Lighting the warehouse on fire is easier, granted, but people will hear their howls from across the town.  It won’t be fast or quiet, the mountain ash will burn if the fire reaches it, and you run the possibility of the fire department reaching them on time to save at least some of them, at which point even a stray boot or fire hose dragging over the circle will break it.”  Her lips stretch into a thin smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.  “The only reason nobody heard my family and came running on time was because the fire grew too big, too fast, and Kate flooded the house with wolfsbane beforehand.  None of them could howl, and their screams weren’t loud enough over the fire.  They were already dying before they started burning, and wolfsbane poisoning is not a pretty way to go, as I’m sure you noticed when Gerard keeled over.”

Stiles regards her sombrely.  Then he rolls onto his back again, eyes finding the ceiling once more.  “I’ll have the twins go after Kali.  With any luck, we’ll have three less bodies to deal with by Wednesday morning.”

He says nothing more, even when Laura lies down and curls up beside him on the bed, weightless and intangible and yet still so real.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	43. broken soulmates au (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soulmates au where one is affected by the other's trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Soulmates AU, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Angst, PTSD, Preslash
> 
> Short but angsty. Also I just realized I don't have a single soulmates au in this collection.

 

The first time they meet is on the field outside the school on the night of the winter formal. Peter's run Lydia down, sunk his teeth into her as she screamed, and guaranteed himself a backdoor in the worst-case scenario.

And then _he's_ there, Scott McCall's best friend, gangly-limbed and staring and not dressed up at all. Clearly, he didn't just come from the dance. He's in jeans and a shirt, he's barefoot and his hair is uncombed, and it's strange enough that it takes a long moment for Peter to realize what is the most jarring thing about this picture - he can't smell fear on the boy at all.

Stiles, Peter recalls. Stiles Stilinski, the Sheriff's son. He's noticed the teen of course, the human boy who taught Peter's accidental beta control. He's watched them in Scott's backyard, muddling through control exercises that Peter is certain were made up by Stiles, if only because Derek wouldn't and Scott honestly doesn't seem to have the mental capacity for it, especially with Allison Argent on his mind twenty-four/seven.

So Stiles is the clever one, Peter knows, but he doesn't know much else about the boy, hasn't had time to look into him much between hunting down the people responsible for killing his family and trying to get Scott to work with him. He hasn't even really _seen_ Stiles around aside from the occasional glimpse.

And he's starting to realize that there might be a reason for that, because looking at Stiles now, Peter's certain there's something not quite right about the boy. Stiles is still staring, and he doesn't seem particularly concerned about the girl or the blood or even Peter himself. He looks like someone who stumbled on something vaguely interesting and worth at least a look but nothing more than that. When he blinks, it's slow and distant, and there's something eerily blank reflected in his dull brown eyes.

Still, Peter isn't above taking advantage of the situation, and he's quick to offer a deal - Stiles can call an ambulance for Lydia, and in exchange, Peter gets to... borrow Stiles, just for a little while.

Stiles stares for a bit longer before finally glancing down at Lydia's unconscious form sprawled on the ground. Then he pulls out his phone and clumsily fumbles a text to someone. Peter figures that's good enough, especially when Stiles stashes his phone away again after that, and he's whisking Stiles away just as one of the gym doors of the school is thrown open.

Stiles doesn't speak at all during the drive, even when Peter prods him a few times by taunting him about Scott. But the boy simply huddles in the passenger seat and gazes listlessly out the window, and Peter soon settles for slanting sidelong glances at Stiles instead.

Faint agitation prickles under his skin, and it makes him uneasy. He feels as if he's... missing something.

But he has more important things to focus on right now, he still has _Kate Argent_ to deal with, and he can't afford to let himself get distracted. He knows full well he isn't sane, that his mind is tattered and fraying without pack bonds to sustain him, and sometimes, it still hurts to think despite the power that now courses through his veins.

So he shunts all unnecessary thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrates on his plan. He gets Stiles to find Derek for him, but he ends up lingering long enough to offer Stiles the bite.

Stiles helped him. And he doesn't look at Peter with accusation or judgement.

Stiles doesn't say anything, not yes, not no, but he shies away when Peter reaches for him.

Peter doesn't try again. His fangs itch, and his rage returns to the forefront. He leaves Stiles behind in the parking lot, and he's halfway to the Preserve when he realizes his soulmark feels like it's on fire.

He doesn't make the connection then, not quite. Partly because he can't. Can't waver from his goal, and that already takes up most of his energy. But also partly because he doesn't dare.

He dies that night, with Kate's blood on his hands and burning alive yet again. It's almost a relief when Derek finally rips his throat out.

 

* * *

 

And then he comes back, still not quite sane, not quite stable, but better. Weak of course, with the taste of ash and dirt and death on his tongue, but alive and thinking more clearly than he has since the fire robbed him of everything.

Including-

He stands under the spray of water in the shower and stares down at the lines on his forearm. Pitch black like it's been ever since he woke up one April morning, sixteen years ago.

Sixteen years.

And he thinks back to Stiles, dead-eyed and not quite there, broken in a way that Peter's seen only once before, when he met a werewolf from another pack whose soulmate was on the brink of death after being riddled by a hunter's bullets.

Peter can't get dressed fast enough. He could throttle himself for not seeing it before.

He still doesn't catch up to Stiles until after the kanima is an idiot teenager again, and Gerard has been poisoned to within an inch of his life. But Stiles is there too, he was the one to drive Lydia here, and Peter finds himself cataloguing every cut and bruise marring Stiles' face and silently promising to rip Gerard apart himself if the hunter somehow survives tonight.

The others drive away or disappear into the night in twos and threes until only Stiles and Peter are left. Stiles only stands there, staring vacantly at a patch of space like he's forgotten he should leave as well, and Peter's heart aches.

He circles closer to Stiles until he's only a foot away, making sure Stiles sees him coming.

"Stiles?" Peter prompts quietly when Stiles gives no indication that he's noticed Peter at all. It takes a few tense moments but Stiles does eventually stir and turn to blink sluggishly at him.

He's wearing another long-sleeved plaid shirt today but one of the sleeves has been conveniently shredded, deliberately by the looks of it, probably by hunters looking to see if they could identify Stiles' soulmate and torture them too. Here and now, a tilt of his head and a closer look confirm everything Peter already suspected.

Their soulmarks match perfectly. Except Peter's is black while Stiles is a faded wispy grey, cut through with old scars and fresh scratches as if Stiles has spent the past six years trying to claw them out of his flesh.

Peter closes his eyes. Then he opens them again and reaches out to touch the back of Stiles' hand, only to draw away once more when Stiles automatically avoids him.

"Let's get you home, alright?" He says instead, softly, gently, and when he crowds a little closer, Stiles turns and shuffles off towards his jeep.

Peter follows and wonders how much more the universe will take from him before it will be satisfied that he's paid enough for whatever crimes it thinks he's guilty of.

He wonders why it had to make Stiles pay for them as well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	44. broken soulmates au (Pt.2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Soulmates AU, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Angst, PTSD, Preslash, Panic Attacks

 

They arrive at a house devoid of light. Stiles pulls the jeep into the empty driveway, stumbles out of the vehicle, and then heads for the house. Peter follows Stiles to the front door, and when Stiles doesn't tell him to leave or even close the door in his face, he steps inside after the boy.

Stiles goes straight upstairs to his bedroom without switching on any lights. Peter can see fine more or less so when he lays eyes on stiles' room, the first thing that comes to mind is how _neat_ the place looks.

Teenage boys usually have posters hanging on their walls or textbooks and clothes strewn on the floor or even an unmade bed, don't they? But no, the textbooks are on the desk shelf, there isn't a sweater out of place, and the bed looks like it could've leapt out of an IKEA catalogue. There isn't a single poster on the wall. Peter didn't like a mess either when he was a teenager but even his bedroom was more cluttered than Stiles'.

'Neat' might not be the right word after all. 'Empty' seems more accurate, as if someone made a half-hearted attempt at arranging this place to look more like an actual bedroom but failed and ended up with a pale imitation instead.

Peter watches as Stiles drops his keys off on the nightstand before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. And then he just... stops. Everything about him stops. His hands go limp in his lap. Even his breathing seems to slow. He sits and stares at the far wall, like a robot being powered down, and for all intents and purposes, the boy looks to be prepared to do nothing else for the rest of the night.

Peter feels queasy just looking at him. He thinks of the fire. Thinks of all the pack bonds he lost, all at once. Thinks of the coma, the pain and rage and grief and fear. Thinks of his death barely a month ago.

And he wonders how Stiles is even still _alive_ , much less functioning. Not functioning _well_ , obviously, but he can walk. He can think. He brought Lydia to stop Jackson, and he taught Scott control. There's definitely still a mind in there, sharp and capable when the occasion calls for it. It's just the rest of him that's struggling.

Peter stands there for a moment longer, torn between going to Stiles and not. Then he makes up his mind and turns to head back downstairs. Half an hour later, he's whipped up a simple dinner for two and brings it back up to Stiles.

Stiles is exactly where Peter left him.

"Stiles?" Peter sets the bowls down on the bedside table before crouching down in front of the boy. His wolf itches to lean forward and scent, and more than anything, he wants to at least take away some of the pain Stiles has to be in, but both those things require touch, which Stiles has made plenty clear without ever saying a word that he doesn't like, and Peter doesn't think forcing that issue right now would be wise.

"I made you something to eat," He continues quietly, catching Stiles' eye and waiting until the boy blinks twice and actually _focuses_. It takes a few minutes, but Peter eventually coaxes a bowl of chicken broth into Stiles' hands before sitting down himself in the desk chair with his own dinner.

Stiles eats, slowly, mechanically. Every time he lifts his arm, Peter's gaze is drawn to the washed out soulmark etched on too pale skin, and it makes him want to hit something. Or raise Kate Argent from the dead and kill her all over again before laying her bloody heart at Stiles' feet.

He suppresses both urges. It isn't as if either option will do Stiles any good.

Stiles' spoon clinks with a muted finality when he finishes. For a long moment, his gaze remains lowered, but then his head jerks up, and Peter finds himself at the end of Stiles' stare once more, just like that night on the lacrosse field.

He spares a second to wonder if Stiles sought him out on purpose that night.

Stiles' eyes drop, and it only takes another moment for Peter to realize what the boy is looking at.

Or _wants_ to look at. He hopes.

He sets aside his own bowl before tugging up his right sleeve. There's enough moonlight streaming through the window for even human eyes to see the shape of the mark. Peter is more interested in Stiles' reaction.

Stiles... doesn't really react. He stares for a while, features as void of emotion as his bedroom walls. But then his hand releases its grip on the spoon and darts forward, lightning quick, and brushes over the mark with feather-light fingertips. Just as quickly, the boy snatches his hand back, cringing into himself like he's expecting a blow, like he's expecting _pain_ , and his breathing suddenly starts coming too short and too fast, his heartbeat tripping all over itself without warning.

Peter almost drops his bowl in his haste to shove it on the nightstand before lurching forward with none of his usual grace and hovering uselessly in front of Stiles before scooping up Stiles' bowl as well and dumping that on the table to get it out of the way. Then he reaches for Stiles' hands, ignoring the whistling sound of terror that instantly chokes itself at the back of Stiles' throat and instead brings one of Stiles' hands up to press it flat over Peter's heart.

"Stiles? I need you to breathe with me, okay? Just breathe, come on, sweetheart, just breathe."

He keeps up a constant soothing murmur of words even as Stiles' fingers spasm against his shirt but don't quite pull away. Stiles wheezes for breath, and somewhere along the way, his other hand wraps itself around Peter's wrist and squeezes until his knuckles turn white. Peter doesn't mind, especially when the unconscious action seems to anchor Stiles a bit more and eases him back out of his panic attack.

He's shaking by the time his heart finally stops thundering dangerously in Peter's ears. He sways, and Peter almost thinks Stiles might lean into him, but then he does the exact opposite, tearing his hands away from Peter's grasp, and this time, Peter lets him.

Stiles hunches in on himself. His fingers tangle together in a futile bid to still them. Peter watches, silent, then asks quietly, "Do you want to get some rest?"

Stiles doesn't nod, or shake his head, but when Peter kneels and begins unlacing Stiles' shoes - he's wearing shoes this time - the boy doesn't protest.

Peter stays until Stiles is asleep. He thought Stiles might have trouble with slumber, fitful with nightmares perhaps, but the boy sleeps like the dead. Too much like the dead.

But once Stiles is asleep, Peter tucks the blanket more securely around him, takes the opportunity to run a gentle hand through the boy's hair, and then takes the two bowls back downstairs to the sink.

Then he goes back upstairs, makes himself comfortable at the foot of Stiles' bed, and sits vigil for the rest of the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	45. broken soulmates au (Pt.3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** AU, Soulmates AU, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Angst, PTSD, Preslash, Fluff

 

Stiles, Peter learns the next day, doesn't go to school. He has special permission to take online courses because of his 'ongoing trauma', so hypothetically, Stiles never actually has to leave the house if he doesn't want to.

It's a sad existence overall, but it's also probably one of the only existences someone in Stiles' position can have if they don't have a caretaker twenty-four/seven. Peter's already having visions of Stiles getting lost in his own head while crossing the street or something. It isn't a comforting revelation.

Damaged soulbonds are actually fairly hard to come by these days. Fallout from things like scraped knees or a broken arm or even a gunshot wound doesn't really affect the bond beyond a few echoes. It's when things like torture or watching your family die or being burned alive or _death_ happens that the resulting trauma really sets in. Mental damage, emotional damage - those things get through. And Peter's had no shortage of that over the past six years, which is actually even worse. Trauma to Peter's extent is usually short-lived - if only because most people _can't_ survive that sort of drawn-out agony - and both soulmates would usually be dead shortly after, one because of their injuries and the other because of the devastating shock that would rebound through the bond. But Peter survived, and so did Stiles, and here they both are now, alive with one foot in the grave.

There's no miracle cure for a damaged soulbond. People have been studying it for eons. It was once believed that soulbonds allowed the trauma to be shared, essentially halving it, but that was quickly disproven. If anything, soulbonds _doubled_ the trauma.

They live in safer times nowadays though. More civilized times, even for werewolves. For the average citizen, death by soulbond really only happens to people who have criminals or soldiers for soulmates. An unlucky few have ones who get into serious car crashes or fall off a cliff while mountain-climbing or get attacked walking through some back alley. But overall, they're just stories. Things that - if they happen at all - will always happen to someone you hear about from a friend of a friend or over the news from the other side of the world.

But safe flew out the window for Peter the moment Kate set her sights on the Hale Pack. The moment Derek let his dick do the thinking. The moment Peter let Talia order him not to investigate why her son was sneaking around to meet up with his mysterious girlfriend.

And for Stiles too. Stiles, who was ten and far too you young to deal with any of that but had to anyway. He probably had no idea what was going on when all that pain crashed through the bond without warning. At least Peter had context.

Stiles doesn't kick him out of the house in the morning either. Peter cooks them both breakfast, idly wondering where the Sheriff is. Work perhaps? But who in their right mind would go even an entire night without at least phoning home to check on Stiles? Nobody's texted him either, although Peter supposes counting on Scott to remember such things is an exercise in futility. The boy's probably skulking outside the Argent house right now. He'll get himself shot, and he'll have no one to blame but himself. Even a perfectly human boy would get shot by a girl's father when they're practically stalking their daughter outside her bedroom window.

It's a Saturday, so Stiles wouldn't have had school anyway, but after grabbing a shower and eating the sausages and eggs that Peter puts in front of him, he sits down at his desk, takes out his books, turns on his laptop, and spends the next couple hours doing some truly mind-numbing math and chemistry homework.

Peter suspects that Stiles actually likes it. Numbers and equations are straightforward. Once you understand the concepts, it's easy enough and requires very little analytical in-depth thinking the way writing an essay or a book report would. It's not the monotony that appeals to Stiles. It's the fact that it _makes sense_.

Peter absently studies his soulmark and wonders if he's getting residual feedback. Soulbonds usually just transfer pain (which really only confirms Peter's opinion that the universe or God or gods or whatever divine being decided "let's give humanity the love of their life, but in exchange, they have to hurt for it" is well and truly a sadistic bitch), but on occasion, in close proximity, a few vague thoughts or emotions might get through too.

At around noon, just as Peter is thinking about making lunch, Stiles flips his books shut and turns off his laptop before spinning around in his chair. Peter, sitting on the bed with a book he borrowed off Stiles' shelf, blinks back cautiously.

Stiles spends a long minute fiddling with the zipper of his sweater. Then he stands and shuffles for the door, and Peter quickly follows. Stiles forgets shoes again as he stumbles out the front door. Peter grabs a pair of sandals and closes the door on his way out, only to stop again when Stiles pauses by his jeep.

A tense silence falls over them. Peter wonders if he's finally overstayed his welcome and this is Stiles' way of telling him to get out. But then Stiles' hand flits out, and they're standing close enough that the boy's fingertips _almost_ brushes Peter's sleeve. He retracts his hand after that and doesn't try again but Peter gets the message.

They don't take the jeep but Peter at least manages to convince Stiles to sit down and put on the sandals before they take off down the sidewalk. It takes about half an hour but they finally reach a building downtown - old but sturdy-looking and clean - built at the corner of a relatively quieter street. There's no sign to indicate what kind of store it is, and the windows all have curtains drawn, but when Peter expands his senses a bit, he can smell stale ink and old paper.

Bookstore then. Possibly secondhand. He can't remember every shop in town from before the fire, and it isn't as if he visited every one either, so this bookshop must be one he never went to.

He blinks in puzzlement when Stiles produces a key and unlocks the door before pushing his way inside. Peer follows, briefly wrinkling his nose against the desire to sneeze. The interior isn't particularly dirty either but there's dust in the air that speaks of the constant lack of presence here.

Does Stiles know the shop owner? If he has his own key to this place, he must know whoever owns the building well enough to be trusted with one.

Stiles doesn't linger in the core of the shop. Instead, he leads Peter to the back, weaving between the floor-to-ceiling bookcases with ease borne from familiarity. The shelves, Peter notices, are largely unfilled. There are a few books here and there, carelessly stacked or leaning against one wall of a shelf, as if they were forgotten when the others were cleared out, but for the most part, the shop is eerily empty of its wares.

They come to a halt in front of a bookcase no different than all the others, only for Stiles to take out another key and insert it into a tiny keyhole at the base of the frame that no one would see if they weren't deliberately looking for it.

The bookcase swings open like the door it's been made to disguise, and there's even a handle on the back for people on the other side to use when coming through. Inside is a wooden staircase that winds upward in a spiral, and after making sure the bookcase shuts behind them, Peter follows Stiles up the flight of stairs.

The second floor is an apartment, as Peter's guessed already. The stairs open into a short hallway that leads to the rest of the flat. For a moment, he wonders if maybe Stiles wants to introduce him to the owner, a friend perhaps, but Peter can't hear any other heartbeats aside from their own two, and he doesn't need his sense of smell to realize this place hasn't really been properly lived in in a long time.

Stiles stops a few paces off the stairs and turns to look at Peter. Peter looks back, not quite sure what they're doing here. But Stiles just huddles in his sweater and stares almost expectantly at Peter, waiting for a reaction.

Peter hesitates, glancing around the apartment again, all smooth hardwood floors and matching beige walls. There's a single bedroom on one side, although upon closer inspection, one of the couches in the neatly furnished living area is a sofa bed. There's no TV but there's a kitchen with all the essential appliances, and a bathroom that- he gives it a cursory scan - yes, has a door that connects back to the bedroom. There's even a closet for the washer and dryer in the hall. Large windows decorate one side of the flat, with a small balcony attached, and there's even a fireplace built into the wall. Overall, while the place is simple and could use a bit of spring cleaning, it seems comfortable enough and more than sufficient for someone to live in.

He turns back to Stiles. "It's... a nice place?"

Stiles blinks at him, and then his shoulders sag a little. Something flickers across his features, too quick to catch, but for a split second, Peter could swear the boy wants to roll his eyes at him.

But Stiles only slinks over, and his hand makes that twitchy motion towards Peter's sleeve again once they're within arm's length before Stiles turns and heads for the bedroom. Bewildered, Peter goes as well, watching curiously as Stiles stops in front of the nightstand.

For a tense moment, Stiles just stares at the beside table with blank, expressionless eyes. Peter's almost afraid Stiles has retreated into his head again or wherever it is his mind goes when he isn't all there, but then he reaches out and pulls open one of the drawers, and when he withdraws, he has a picture frame in his grasp, one he hands over to Peter with only minimal reluctance.

Peter frowns from Stiles' face to the picture, which is covered in enough dust to leave a grey film on his fingers when he sweeps some of it away, and then he stills.

It's a photo of three people in what looks to be a park - a man with an arm wrapped around a brown-haired woman, who in turn has her hands resting on a little boy's shoulders.

Everyone knows the Sheriff's wife is dead. Even Peter knows from before the fire. It was one of those things that can't be kept secret in a small town, especially when the issue was related to such a public figure. And overall, the Sheriff hasn't changed that much from the picture and from what Peter remembers of the man the few times they crossed paths because of their respective jobs before the fire. Older and more tired, but who wouldn't be? Tragedy wears on everyone, and Stiles' father is a police officer - not exactly a career where one only meets shining examples of humanity.

(Peter will never tell Stiles how thoroughly he investigated the Sheriff right alongside Meyers and Harris and the two arsonists and Kate. He will never tell his soulmate that if Peter had found any evidence that the Sheriff had been bribed into closing the case without an honest investigation or he'd written it off as an accident despite suspicions so he wouldn't have to deal with bad publicity, Peter would have killed him too. Fortunately for everyone involved, the Argents knew what they were doing, had done it dozens, possibly hundreds, of times before, and they probably _had_ bribed officials before but not that time. They just did a very good job bribing the insurance investigator instead on top of covering their tracks.)

It isn't difficult to pick out some of Stiles' mother in Stiles' own features. And aside from the age, the only difference - the biggest, saddest difference - between younger Stiles and present Stiles is how much healthier and happier younger Stiles looks, grinning from ear to ear without a care in the world. Without knowing how shitty his life would become in a mere handful of years.

Nobody ever _knows_ until their life is already lying in ruins all around them.

He looks up again at Stiles, only to be met with a loose, outstretched fist, and when Peter slowly extends his own hand, Stiles' hand opens, and two silver keys are dropped into his palm.

"Stiles?" Peter says quietly, dots finally connecting in his head. "This place... It belongs to your family? Or you?"

Stiles doesn't quite meet his gaze but his head jerks in a semblance of a nod.

Peter pauses and glances down at the keys. And then, with a growing sense of disbelief, he asks, "Are you... giving me a place to stay?"

Stiles shrugs this time, reaching out to take back the picture and shut it away again in the drawer. His scent threads through with anxiety and embarrassment both, faint, like he can't feel either emotion to their full extent, but there nonetheless, and that's an answer in and of itself.

Peter... doesn't quite know what to say. And Stiles is already wandering off, skirting around Peter on his way out of the bedroom, twisting his sleeves around his hands.

Peter doesn't move. Mostly because he's too stunned to move. For once in his life, he has no idea how to react.

He looks down at himself. Aside from some cash and clothes he squirreled away in the Hale vault from before the fire - _for emergencies_ , he thought at the time - he literally doesn't have anything to his name but the clothes on his back and the shoes on his feet. He's a dead man in a world that's moved on without him, with no pack, and relatives - relative now - that abandoned him years ago. He very much doubts Derek would give him a dime or even a last meal, even if Peter begged, and it's probably foolish, but Peter still has his pride, and he isn't about to give that up too just for a few meager morsels of grudging goodwill from a nephew who had no problems leaving him for dead when Peter was at his weakest.

He looks around once more. It _is_ a nice place. The Hale house was a lot bigger of course, big even for the number of people that used to live in it, but for himself, this would... this place would be more than enough. There's even a bookstore downstairs, or what _could_ be a bookstore again, if Stiles is alright with it. Peter would have to start from scratch, gather books, call in old favours from people he used to know to get more, buy and sell and bargain, but he _enjoys_ that kind of thing, he used to hunt down books in secondhand bookstores all the time, and it would keep him busy, give him back something of a life too, and that's more than he can say for himself right now.

But.. he also doesn't have the faintest clue why Stiles is doing this. Or even how Stiles knew Peter was having trouble finding a place to live in and just generally picking his life back up. Then again, he did stay over at Stiles' house, and it doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.

So it's really just the why that has him stumped, but he doubts Stiles would tell him anyway. So far, the boy hasn't said a word to him, and half the time, it doesn't seem like he's hearing anything Peter says anyway. But Stiles noticed _this_ , noticed and... and cared? Enough to offer this flat to him. He hasn't even asked for payment.

Peter... isn't used to this. For him, nothing's ever come free in his life, not his birth, not his position in his old pack, not whatever love his family could spare for him. Not even his soulmate, already so ravaged by the madness of a damaged soulbond. Peter can't even have that without destroying it by association. Honestly, Stiles would've been better off attached to just about anyone else.

And yet...

He turns on his heel and ducks out of the bedroom. Stiles is... on the floor actually, curled up in a way that looks distinctly uncomfortable, but Stiles doesn't seem to mind so Peter just makes his way over and crouches down beside the boy.

He cocks his head. Then he lays a hand on the floor. Ah, that's why.

"Heated floorboards?" Peter enquires, mildly amused.

A shadow of a smile flits at one corner of Stiles' mouth even if his eyes don't meet Peter's. Peter tips back off his feet and settles down cross-legged. The ensuing silence is almost companionable between them. Stiles keeps his cheek pressed against the warm wood underneath him, eyes half-lidded, dozing like a cat. Peter watches and makes a mental note to buy some sweaters in Stiles' size, just in case. Humans can get sick so easily.

"...Stiles?" Peter says at last, waiting patiently until Stiles stirs and peers up at him. Peter doesn't try to touch him even though the desire for contact nags at him constantly.

He thinks about refusing. It would be the _right_ thing to do, wouldn't it? This would probably count as taking advantage, and - admittedly - Peter does that a lot, but. But he doesn't think he'll ever want to do it to his soulmate.

At the same time though, it isn't as if Stiles is so out of it that he doesn't know what he's doing. There's still a mind in there that thinks and calculates his options and decisions. And if Peter turns him down, there's no guarantee Stiles won't take it as rejection entirely, and who knows what that will do to his psyche.

Besides, if he's honest, Peter doesn't _want_ to turn him down anyway, and it isn't even just because he has nowhere else to go. Living here would give him an excuse to spend more time with Stiles and to keep a watchful eye on his soulmate's health. Cook for him too, provide for him the way his wolf side urges him to do.

And maybe, like that, Peter might be able to start healing some of the damage.

So, he skips past the _are you sures_ and _I could nevers_ , and for once in his life, all he says is, "Thank you."

Stiles doesn't smile. But his eyes look just a little brighter, and for now, it's a decent start.

 


	46. broken soulmates au (Pt.4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** AU, Soulmates AU, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Angst, PTSD, Preslash

 

Christopher Argent knocks on the door that same afternoon, after Peter and Stiles have left the bookshop and returned to the Stilinski home.

Peter can't move in right away - he'll need to do a bit of shopping for bedsheets and blankets and food and toiletries at the very least, and Stiles lends him his laptop and phone so that Peter can get started on... persuading a few old contacts to put together some identifaction papers and a paper trail for him to explain his lack of scars once he officially reappears in Beacon Hills. Part of this town knows he was dead, mostly because they killed him, and the rest probably think he is too - if only because mysteriously missing coma patients don't usually mean good things, it usually means someone's going to get sued - but none of them have actual proof, so if he can spin some fanciful story about misplaced paperwork and a miraculous recovery in a hospital across the country, nobody's going to question it. People don't come back from the dead after all.

He's calculating how large a budget he's going to need when he hears a car coming up the street. Now normally, that wouldn't concern him overly much. No hunter worth a damn would make that much noise if they were out to kill a werewolf. But Peter's also - rightfully - paranoid at this point in his life, his senses that much more honed even when he isn't actively using them, which is why he picks up the scent of wolfsbane beneath gasoline, lingering in a way that spoke of someone who's handled the stuff for far too long to ever get rid of it entirely no matter how many times they wash their hands or clothes.

Then he smells Argent, and he's on his feet and down the stairs before the car even gets within two houses of them.

He's waiting at the front door as Chris parks by the curb and gets out of the car. The hunter's spotted him too, and his whole frame is tense like he wants nothing more than to either shoot Peter or get back in the car and drive away. He does neither and walks up the drive instead. Peter's certain he has at least one gun and a couple knives on him.

"Christopher," Peter greets in deceptively light tones. "Did you take a wrong turn? The cemetery is six blocks down that way."

Chris shoots him a narrow-eyed look but doesn't otherwise react. "What are you doing here, Peter? This is Stiles' house."

"I could ask you the same thing," Peter retorts coolly. The nails of the hand he's holding open the door with curls into claws out of sight. "You have no business here, Argent."

Chris doesn't back down an inch. If only he had as much spine when it came to his father.

"I know he isn't... well." The hunter says stiffly, eyes flickering past Peter's shoulder, then back. "Allison told me." Because of course, the whole town knows about Stiles' soulbond. "I wasn't sure if Scott-" There's a tiny disapproving curl at the end of the name that almost goes by unnoticed. "-contacted him after last night so I came by to check."

Peter is hard-pressed not to roll his eyes. "It's been an entire night and half a day. You're a little late. If someone was going to kill him, he'd be long dead by now."

Chris finally slants a glare at him. "Are you using yourself as an example? What are _you_ doing here, Hale?"

"That," Peter growls around a thin smile. "Is none of your business. Stiles is fine. You can leave now."

Chris opens his mouth, clearly about to object, but there's a heartbeat coming down the stairs already, and Peter starts debating the merits of simply shutting the door in the hunter's face.

"You-" is all Chris gets out before Stiles is there, rubbing sleep from his eyes, hair mussed from the nap he was taking earlier. Then his gaze lands on the hunter at his door, and his shoulders jerk, like his body's immediate reflex is torn between running away and standing his ground. His scent floods with anxiety and sours with fear, and Peter can't hold back the snarl that tears itself from his throat in response.

Stiles doesn't even bat an eye in Peter's direction but he flinches back when Chris takes a step forward, and Peter starts wondering if he can get away with murdering another Argent.

(He could. He really, really could. It isn't as if anyone would miss the hunter anyway except for that darling daughter of his, and who cares about her? Besides Scott, but Scott doesn't count. Last Peter checked, the girl tried to kill them all. So she can't complain if people try to kill her back. Or in this case, kill someone she cares about. Fair's fair.)

"Leave, Argent!" Peter snaps instead, stepping sideways to bodily put himself in front of Stiles. "You've already overstayed your welcome."

Chris... isn't even looking at him anymore. Or Stiles for that matter. Instead, his eyes are glued to Peter's arm, the one attached to the hand that he's braced against the doorframe, the one that carries his soulmark. And his sleeve has slid down just enough to reveal part of it.

If Peter had any doubts about Chris being one of the hunters who at least knew about if not participated in Stiles' torture session at Gerard's hands yesterday - Chris, admittedly, isn't the type, at least when it comes to human children - even after Stiles' reaction a few seconds ago, they're all gone now because that is definitely recognition on Chris' face.

Peter watches impassively as Chris pales two shades, gaze darting between him and Stiles with a horrified sort of dawning realization, and then he closes his eyes, just for a moment, and Peter wonders what it feels like to be related to people who have ruined so many lives just for their own sick pleasure. Wonders what it feels like to know you've turned a blind eye to what your family did - to what your family _was_ \- for so many years. Maybe Chris never had any proof, but there's no way he's so stupid or oblivious that he didn't notice anything either. Even if he missed Kate, _nobody_ could miss Gerard.

Peter hopes the guilt fucking hurts. Chris was a spineless coward even when they were teenagers, and clearly, that hasn't changed a bit. Couldn't even control his own daughter, who might be female but was and is certainly no matriarch.

"Leave, Argent," Peter says one last time, staring Chris dead in the eye when the hunter looks like he wants to say something, possibly to Stiles. "If I see you or your daughter anywhere around Stiles again, I'll end your family line myself. Trust me, it would be my pleasure."

And with that said, he goes through with his previous urge and slams the door in the hunter's face. He doesn't move until he hears the rev of the car fade away down the street.

Then he turns to Stiles, just in time to see the way Stiles' hand hovers about an inch from Peter's shirt. The boy quickly snatches his hand back, rubbing at the scarred soulmark on his arm instead, but his scent eases a little, no longer as scared.

"Did he ever do anything to you?" Peter asks with a calmness that belies the simmering rage underneath. He doesn't think Chris would go that far but... "Did he help Gerard hurt you? Or even kidnap you?"

Stiles shudders but shakes his head. Peter allows himself to relax, if marginally. Then Chris only knew about it. And Stiles probably saw or at least heard him nearby during his abduction. He knew that Chris knew and still didn't do anything to help him, which made the hunter just as much the enemy as Gerard.

Peter can get behind that logic. He wants to sink his claws into the hunter for that alone.

Then he almost does a double-take when Stiles opens his mouth and croaks out a rusty, "Stay- Stay away from him."

Peter stares. He stares for so long Stiles' cheeks go pink and he takes a step back, ducking his head and seeming to shrink into himself, which quickly prompts Peter to give his brain a mental slap and then try very hard not to break out into a pathetically wide smile.

"I have no plans to spend any more time than necessary in any Argent's vicinity, Stiles," He assures, catching Stiles' eye when the boy glances up at him.

Stiles says nothing for a long moment, and Peter thinks Stiles' quota of words for the month is up, but then his soulmate licks his lips, swallows, and then mumbles, "You can't... get burned again."

This time, it's Peter's turn to fall silent, gaze falling to the soulmark on Stiles' arm.

"I won't," He says at last, voice rough despite how softly his words come out. His fingers itch to touch, to provide comfort. "I won't, sweetheart."

Stiles stares for several drawn-out seconds more before his gaze drops and he nods at the floor. Then he turns and shuffles back towards the stairs. Peter lingers to make sure the door is locked, keeping one ear on Stiles' heartbeat as it moves into the bedroom and settles on the bed again.

When he makes his way back up as well, he finds Stiles curled up under the blankets once more, except he's lying on his side right next to where Peter was sitting earlier instead of on the opposite side of the bed.

Peter pauses, then carefully makes his way over and eases onto the bed as well. He leans back against the headboard again and fetches the laptop from the nightstand. His thigh brushes Stiles' blanket-covered back.

Stiles doesn't move, and the muscles in his back relax in increments.

This time, Peter really does smile.

 


	47. broken soulmates au (Pt.5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles' POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** AU, Soulmates AU, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Angst, PTSD, Preslash

 

When Stiles sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of a room with four soothing dark blue walls, a ceiling dotted with distant stars, and a floor entirely covered in colourful pillows and blankets and fluffy rugs. It's a room where nobody can get in. And it's a room where Stiles is warm and safe and nothing ever hurts.

He's dreamt of this room almost every night for six years now, ever since that fateful night when he was ripped from his sleep feeling like he was burning alive, and all of it centered on his soulmark. He woke up screaming and writhing in agony, fingernails digging into his own flesh in an attempt to tear the pain away, but no matter what he did, he couldn't escape it.

Later, Dad told him he blacked out, only to wake up again, screaming again. The hospital had to keep him sedated, for a good three months. Except being sedated didn't take the pain away either. It just shut him up. After three months, he learned to breathe through the pain. Learned to numb himself from it. Learned to stay silent. For the most part, he doesn't even talk anymore.

(Because when he opens his mouth, he never knows whether or not he'll just start screaming again. Because there are days when he's still screaming inside his own head.)

He still has his soulmark in the dream room, but the scars from his constant scratching and the four separate times he took a blade to his own arm are always gone.

The room is an escape. Sleep is an escape. It's been his favourite activity ever since he discovered his mind would somehow almost always take him there.

Until now. Oh, he still he goes to the room when he sleeps. But... well.

Stiles didn't know what gave it away. In general, soulmates only know they're soulmates when they see identical soulmarks on each other's arm. But he's heard stories about some who just get a... feeling about it. He's always thought they were _just_  stories, one of those fanciful fairy tales where you meet the love of your life and just _know_.

But then Scott gets bitten, and there's an Alpha werewolf running around, and Stiles begins feeling... restless, like there's something tugging at him, calling out to him, something urgent and insistent that keeps him awake even when he's exhausted.

He starts wandering the town. He's done it before. The night hides him, gives him some peace even if everything still hurts, and there's no loud noises or people trying to talk to him or other things that mean he has to respond.

And then he wanders onto that field, and there's a man - a werewolf, the Alpha - crouching over a girl on the ground, and when their eyes meet, it's as if two pieces of the world - previously out of sync - click into place all at once, and he's more focused and more lucid in that single moment than he has been in six years.

The man tells him what to do - call someone for the girl, and then go with him - and Stiles does it. He doesn't usually argue much nowadays; it takes too much energy, but he also usually doesn't have any qualms about walking off when he doesn't want to deal with something.

He feels inexplicably drawn to the man though, so he lets him usher him into a car, and then they go to a parking lot where the man asks him to find Derek. Vaguely, Stiles is aware that he probably shouldn't be helping. But the man doesn't speak to him like he thinks Stiles is retarded or even broken, even though he very much is the latter, yet at the same time, he doesn't shove Stiles into walls or smack him around like Derek did a couple times even though Stiles is certain this man is even stronger.

When Stiles looks him in the eye, he thinks the man is hurting too, so maybe he knows what it feels like, to already be in pain and not want to get hurt even more.

And then the man offers to turn him into a werewolf, and he reaches out to _touch_ Stiles, to take his wrist, and Stiles automatically flinches away.

He doesn't like being touched anymore. The only one he can tolerate it from is his dad, and even then, never for long. He remembers doctors holding him down at the hospital, every hand like a brand on his skin as he twisted and sobbed and tried to tear his own flesh from his bones.

Touch means pain. The therapist he was forced to see a few times before he simply stopped going told him it was all psychological, all in his mind, but that didn't make a single difference to Stiles. Touch means pain, so even when it comes from this man, Stiles can't stand it.

The man leaves after that, and a part of Stiles wants to call him back. Wants to ask him to stay. He doesn't, and the man doesn't. Instead, Stiles goes home, and that very same night, he burns again, except this time, he doesn't scream. He's been _taught_ not to scream.

He spends the next four hours in the shower instead, curled up under the ice-cold spray. He doesn't shiver. He doesn't make a sound. He lies there with his eyes closed and his left forearm bloodying the water pooled underneath him. He lies there and wishes he was dead.

He doesn't die, and he's more disappointed about it than anything else when he drags himself from the shower and crawls into bed.

Later, once he learns that the man - Peter Hale - is dead, burned alive again, Stiles sits down and finally looks into what Scott has been trying to hide from him. As if Stiles didn't notice. Scott can't keep a secret to save his life. The only reason Stiles doesn't already know is because he didn't care enough to know, and beause Scott has been spending all his time with some girl named Allison Argent.

Stiles cracks the Hale fire case in about three days - arson, not accident, and Kate Argent is the one responsible. It lines up with everything he's learned about werewolves and hunters. He hopes Scott knows what he's doing, and Allison Who Smells Nice and Smiles Sunshine and Rainbows won't turn out exactly like her aunt.

It's a futile hope, because not only does she turn out exactly like her aunt, her grandfather is even crazier, and Stiles gets abducted just because he's Scott's friend.

Everything is a blur from the moment a man comes up from behind him during one of his long walks through town and tazes him into unconsciousness. When he wakes up, he's in a basement with two other teenagers strung up behind him, and then Gerard Argent comes in and monologues like a Saturday morning cartoon supervillain and tells him he's a message for Scott.

Then he hits Stiles, over and over again. _Not_ like a Saturday morning cartoon supervillain. He draws blood. Leaves bruises. Cuts through Stiles' sleeve with a knife to check his soulmark, threatening to find his soulmate and hurt them too. Something cracks in Stiles' general rib area.

Stiles never makes a sound. He's been taught not to scream, and compared to burning, compared to burning _twice_ , what Gerard Argent does to him is nothing.

He's dragged out of the basement and up the stairs. He gets a glimpse of what looks to be the living room, and he recognizes Allison from all the pictures Scott's shown him, recognizes Mr. Argent too because his face popped up when Stiles was digging into the Argent family while he was solving the Hale case. Both father and daughter are staring back at him. Stiles doesn't think they even realize Stiles has spotted them because he can barely keep his eyes open from the pain, and he's hauled out the front door within seconds. But the brief glance he has of them is enough to sear both their faces into his mind. Allison's certainly not smiling sunshine and rainbows.

He doesn't understand how Scott can love someone like that.

He's dumped in a gutter in some dirty back alley. He limps his way home. And then he has to go out again because Scott is in trouble, and there's a kanima running loose, and he has to get the redhead - Lydia Martin - to her lizard boyfriend before said lizard boyfriend kills everyone.

That's when he meets the man again. Peter Hale. Stiles' _soulmate_ , because what else can he be?

In the aftermath, Stiles admittedly zones out. Loses time. His energy's flagging, he feels light-headed, and his whole body is aching on top of the constant burn that lingers under his skin. Scott forgets him, he thinks, because he blinks - probably more than once even though it doesn't feel like it - and Scott is no longer there.

But then Peter _is_ , Peter who reaches out like he wants to take Stiles' hand, and Stiles... Stiles doesn't think he'd mind, this time, but it's so ingrained in him to avoid physical contact that he does it anyway without thinking.

Peter doesn't push. Doesn't get fed up like last time at the parking lot. Doesn't walk away. Instead, he escorts Stiles home, and his voice is nice, soft and soothing, dark blue if Stiles had to put a colour to it, like the walls of his dream room.

Peter stays the night. Stays the next day too. He respects Stiles' boundaries, gives him the space he needs, but he's still a very calm, very steady presence at Stiles' side, and Stiles wonders if this is what having a soulmate is like.

Before Stiles knows it, he's leading Peter to his mother's old bookstore, the one she owned and ran when she was still alive and healthy. The one she left for him when she died.

It isn't much of a bookstore anymore.

Peter seems to like it though, even if it does take him a while to understand why they're standing around in an empty apartment. But in that moment, he looks at Stiles like Stiles just gave him the world instead of a crummy little flat full of tainted memories of sunny afternoons spent sorting books with his mom, and it puts something wriggly and warm in Stiles' chest.

Of course, then they go back to his house so that Stiles can take a nap while Peter smirks evilly at whatever he's doing on Stiles' laptop, and Mr. Argent of all people shows up on his doorstep and ruins any good feelings Stiles went to sleep with.

But Peter defends him, and he does it in a way that doesn't make Stiles feel like he's being coddled or pitied for not defending himself. In a town this small, people whisper about Stiles' _condition_ all the time, and while Stiles appreciates Scott telling people off about it, it's always accompanied by apologetic sidelong looks or sympathetic assurances that grate on Stiles' nerves when he has the energy for it. And don't get him started on the way Stiles' dad and Melissa tiptoe around the issue.

Peter doesn't do apologetic looks or sympathy or tiptoeing. He _is_ sorry, Stiles thinks, after studying Peter on and off whenever the werewolf doesn't notice, but he doesn't _feel sorry for_ Stiles, and there's a wealth of difference between the two.

Also, when Peter defends him, there's a lot more threats of violence involved, spoken and unspoken. Subtle, Peter is not, not about this. Not about Stiles. And Stiles likes that more. He's not sure why. Maybe it's because the person Peter defends him from actually _deserves_ the threats, and _Stiles_ actually needs the defending.

Gossip is one thing. He learned to tune that out a long time ago to the point where he doesn't defend himself because he just doesn't care, not because he _can't_ , as Scott and his dad and Scott's mom and a slew of therapists and doctors and just _people_ seem to think. His mind still works, even if he drifts a little sometimes. He still has barbed insults for every asshole out there sitting on his tongue even if he doesn't spit them out. So to him, gossip is harmless.

Hunters are an entirely different matter. Spend time with a werewolf and you get tortured for it. Prove - and sometimes even not prove - to _be_ a werewolf and you get killed for it. Stiles _needs_ defending from those sorts of people. He finds it ironically amusing that Scott wasn't around to protect him when Stiles actually needed him to be there.

He woke when he felt the bed shift, and - coming down the stairs - he heard snatches of Peter's conversation with someone whose voice Stiles didn't recognize until he had a face to go with it. He doesn't have a clue why Mr. Argent would care one way or another if Stiles made it home alright; the hunter certainly didn't care when Gerard was beating him up. Didn't care either about those other two teenagers in the basement - probably werewolves since they were chained up with electricity.

Stiles should probably report that actually. He just... forgot. He's not very good at remembering details like that when the people in question are just strangers to him. Besides, werewolves who aren't Hales - they were probably the betas Scott told him about, the ones Derek bit, so they should be Derek's responsibility, shouldn't they? Derek's their Alpha so Derek should already know that his packmates are in trouble, shouldn't he? Everything Stiles has learned and guessed and researched tells him that.

...Maybe that's why Mr. Argent was here? To silence Stiles about what he saw in case he ratted out the hunter and Allison? Except Mr. Argent bumped into Peter and couldn't go through with it, so he asked about Stiles' wellbeing instead.

Stiles wonders if he's watched too many movies. Still. He's definitely ratting them out now. He can text his dad about it later.

For now though, he's too comfortable to move. He's not sure when it happened, but while he still hurts from the beating he took, and the constant pain he's lived with for over six years still hisses under his skin and coils like a bite beneath his soulmark, it's more... background noise than it's ever been before. Stiles knows werewolves can take pain, but not through several layers of fabric. Peter's leg is a solid line of heat against him though, and it's... it's almost comforting. Reassuring. As if even the monster that takes the shape of his soulmark can be scared away by the bigger monster at his back.

He falls asleep like that, slumber taking him back to his dream room, with walls the colour of Peter's voice. He's alone here, and that's always suited him best. When he's by himself in the silence, nothing ever hurts. But for the first time in all the nights and days and in-betweens he's spent here, he thinks, just maybe, he wouldn't mind a little company.

 


	48. Dioskouroi (Pt.6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit of plot. Mostly just Peter, Stiles, Pollux, and a little more bonding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** AU, Canon Divergence, Spirit Animals, Preslash, Fae  & Faeries
> 
> Realized I haven’t added to these drabbles in a while so here’s another one ^_^

 

_Bang!  Bang!  Bang!_

“Peter!”  Stiles calls from outside the door as he raps his knuckles against it again.  “Peter!  Open!  Um, I mean, let me in!  Wait, I mean-” He thinks for a moment.  “I mean let me in please?”

There, that’s polite, right?  Stiles hasn’t had cause to knock on anyone’s door in a very long time.  When they still hung out, a lot more often than they do nowadays, Stiles usually breezed through any locks at Scott’s house, if he went in at all, and Melissa had long since given up on doing anything about it.  And – barring the beginning of his first visit there – Stiles has always been treated like royalty in the fairy realm.  Doors are opened _for_ him, and Nissa and the others tend to simply barge into his bedroom at the palace whenever they wish.

It probably doesn’t help either that Pollux considers doors to be offensive obstacles easily and rightfully circumvented at his leisure.

“Stiles?”

Oh, the door’s opened.  And Peter is blinking at him from the doorway, one eyebrow lifting in question.

“Peter!”  Stiles grins and thrusts the piece of paper under the man’s nose.  “Look!”

“He can’t see it like that,” Pollux says dryly from where he’s sitting next to Stiles’ feet, and indeed, even Peter goes momentarily cross-eyed when he automatically tries to read what Stiles is showing him.

Stiles adjusts the distance and beams some more.  “Look what we got from Derek!”

Peter looks, and both of his eyebrows go up this time.  “…Derek gave you two million dollars?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and retracts his arm.  “Of course he didn’t _give_ us anything.  Derek wouldn’t give us the time of day if he didn’t want something from us.  Which he did.  This was a _transaction_.”  He gestures down at Pollux, who sniffs smugly.  “Pollux is a really good hacker, and Derek saw us monitoring the Argents’ house when we were hiding him from the law, so he came to us yesterday because he says Erica and Boyd have been kidnapped and he couldn’t find them and I asked him what he’d give us in return for finding them and he started at a thousand k each and I was like, ‘your betas are only worth a thousand dollars each to you?’, and we just kept going like that until he went all growly and threw a blank check at me and told me to put down whatever and he’d sign it, and he did, and then I found Erica and Boyd for him.”

He pauses to take a deep breath.  Peter stares incredulously at him for a stunned moment before a slow smirk spreads across his face.  “Why Stiles, did you guilt my nephew into giving you two million dollars?”

Stiles shrugs shamelessly.  “He got what he wanted too, y’know, we didn’t shortchange him or anything.  Erica and Boyd are being held at the First National Bank, the one that closed down several years ago.  And I even identified his enemies for him – five Alphas.  Derek muttered something about a guy named Deucalion before he left.”

Peter goes still.  Then he steps back and motions inside the apartment.  “Get in here.  No sense standing around on the doorstep.”

Stiles shuffles inside, Pollux snaking around his legs to do the same and promptly disappearing down the nearest hallway, leaving Peter scanning the floor for a moment before looking at Stiles once more, resigned amusement lurking at the corners of his mouth even as he ushers Stiles over to the couch.

“So anyway,” Stiles continues once they’re both sitting down.  He waves the check in the air.  “Sixty-forty split?  I get eight hundred thousand, you get the rest.  I think that’s fair.”

Peter’s already frowning.  “What?”  He shakes his head once, sharply.  “No, that’s absolutely not fair.”

Stiles blinks, taken aback.  “Oh, well, I can do seventy-thirty, but Pollux says I shouldn’t go past tha-”

“No, Stiles,” Peter’s eyes flash.  “We’re not splitting anything.  The two million’s yours.  You and Pollux got it off Derek, not me.  If you want to split it, split it between you two.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to frown.  “But…” He glances down at the check.  “It’s all half yours to begin with.  This is Hale money, you’re a Hale, and just because Derek won’t share doesn’t mean it’s not yours.  You said he and Laura took your money when they ran, right?  So this is rightfully yours, except Lux said we should get some too for the work we did to get it from Derek in the first place.”  Stiles considers that for a second before amending, “Not that I did much.  Derek is terrible at bargaining.”

Peter snorts with genuine amusement and complete agreement, but he also reaches over and pushes the check back towards Stiles.

“It’s yours,” Peter repeats, words threaded through with steel.  “I can get by for now, I don’t need it, and I’ll be making more money soon enough.  I won’t be taking this from you too, Stiles, so don’t bother arguing.”

Stiles wants to argue – _again_ – that Peter isn’t taking anything from him.  But he opens his mouth to say so and nothing comes out.  Instead, he looks at Peter, and he wonders when the last time another actual human being considered him first was.  Put him first.  Talked to him without wanting anything from him.

He can’t really remember.  Mom was one, but that was so long ago, Stiles can barely remember.  Mostly, Mom wanted him to go away, wanted him to die, wanted to kill him, and then wanted him to kill her.

Dad always wanted him to be normal, wanted that his entire life, even when Mom was still alive, although less then, because she was there to help buffer Stiles’… everything, but still, always, Dad wanted him to stop being too much to handle, to stop looking like Mom, to stop talking to a stuffed animal, to take care of himself, and to take care of Dad too, when the man was around.

And Scott… Scott wanted a friend, and he had no other options, and then he did, and Stiles was left behind.

“Stiles?”

Stiles blinks, and Peter’s face swims back into focus, something concerned in the crease of his brow.  Stiles’ eyes sting, quite suddenly, and he hastily looks down, swallowing down the surge of emotion trying to choke him, calling himself all kinds of stupid.

And then Pollux is there, pawing at his leg, and Stiles quickly leans down to scoop him up for a cuddle.  Pollux always knows, is always there when Stiles needs him and even when he doesn’t, and they need no words between them to understand.

He doesn’t cry.  He hasn’t cried in a very long time.  When he looks up again, he smooths down Pollux’s fur as the fox makes himself comfortable in his lap, and then he makes a show of tucking the check away.

“Okay then!”  Stiles says cheerfully, ignoring the searching look Peter’s pinned him with.  “More for us.”  He glances around.  “Should me and Pollux go now?  Are you busy?  What are you doing today?”

Peter is silent for a long, assessing moment.  When he finally speaks, it’s – thankfully – not to interrogate Stiles about his brief, ridiculous meltdown.  “Not if you don’t want to.  Not particularly.  And nothing much.  I was planning on staying in with a book and a drink actually.”  He pauses.  “Would you like to join me?  I’ll tell you about the Alpha Pack.”

Stiles perks up.  “Alpha Pack?  Is that what the five Alphas are called?”

Peter nods, “And Deucalion is their Alpha.  I’ve heard he calls himself the Demon Wolf, or the Destroyer of Worlds.”

Stiles snickers.  Pollux snorts with derision.

Peter smirks.  “Yes, dramatic, but I suppose his reputation does live up to the monikers he picked for himself.”  He pauses, sobering.  “Each of the Alphas under his command has killed their own pack.  That’s the requirement for joining Deucalion when he comes calling.”

Stiles’ eyebrows lift high with disbelief.  “But why?  And what does he do if, I dunno, the Alpha _refuses?_ ”

“Deucalion kills them too, along with the rest of their pack,” Peter reveals shortly, and even he looks faintly disgusted.  “As for why… well.”

And that’s how Stiles learns of Deucalion’s history with the Hale Pack and Gerard and his subsequent spiral down to what he is today – a blind, power-hungry Alpha seeking absolute dominance by absorbing power from other werewolves.

 “I can’t decide if that’s better or worse than the idealistic idiot he was before meeting Gerard,” Pollux mutters.  “I mean what was he _on?_ ”

Stiles rubs the fox’s ears soothingly.  Needless to say, Gerard Argent isn’t Pollux’s favourite person.  Stiles can’t really see him as _anybody’s_ favourite person.  But seriously, how stupidly blind do you have to be to even think Gerard was the sort of man you could make peace with?

Blind.  Hah.  Blind for being blind.

He sees Peter watching him again, curious and patient in turn.

Stiles clears his throat.  “Pollux thinks he’s an idiot.”

Peter’s head cants in agreement.  “I can’t say Pollux is wrong.  But he’s a dangerous, arrogant idiot who won’t hesitate to kill you if you get in his way.”  He glances down at the pocket where Stiles tucked the check.  “Please tell me you only agreed to find Derek’s misfit betas for the two million and nothing else.”

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, of course.”  At the same time, Pollux scoffs out, “As if I would let him agree to anything else.”

They stop and scowl at each other for a moment.  Or, Stiles scowls; Pollux flicks his tail disdainfully and sprawls out even more on Stiles’ lap like he’s laying a claim.

Stiles rolls his eyes again.  But he also gives Pollux a few fond ear scratches.  He can never stay annoyed at him.

“Stiles,” Peter says, and Stiles glances up at him again.  There’s no amusement on the werewolf’s face this time.  “Derek’s betas – were you close to them?”

Stiles blinks.  “Uh, no.  Erica and Boyd are in my grade but, no, we’re not close.  I never even talked to them until Derek bit them.”

Peter nods.  “I didn’t think you were.”  He seems to consider his next words for a moment.  “So no heroics then?  Even if they are your classmates, they’re ultimately Derek’s responsibilities.  Facing down the Alpha Pack for them doesn’t seem very wise if you’re not even friends with them.”

Stiles cocks his head.  Then he looks down at Pollux, who’s wearing an expression torn between tolerant mirth and irritation, but he doesn’t speak.  Stiles looks back up at Peter, unable to keep the confusion out of his voice.  “Well, obviously.  Derek didn’t even try to pay me to help him get them back, and it’s not like I care about them.  Even back when we were all being tortured by Gerard, I only helped them escape because it wasn't really out of my way.  Why would I fight the Alpha Pack to save them?  How would I even do that?”

A flash of relief crosses Peter’s face.  Pollux harrumphs but shoots Stiles an approving nod. Stiles glances between them before shrugging.  They could be as weird as each other sometimes.

“I wouldn’t fight them,” Stiles muses out loud, mind mulling the potential problem over.  “I’d just poison them.  Something airborne, through the bank’s ventilation shafts.  And mountain ash to keep them inside.  That’s much smarter than trying to punch them in the face or something.”

“Much,” Peter agrees, his lips hinting at a slightly fanged grin.  “But I doubt Derek will know how to do anything else.  He’s never been one for subtlety.”

Stiles studies the werewolf for a second.  “Are _you_ going to help him?”

Peter scoffs, absently picking up a book that’s been set aside on the coffee table.  “And get thrown through a wall for my efforts?  No, I think I’ll stay away from this one.  Well,” He amends.  “Until the Alpha Pack becomes a problem for me too.  I doubt Deucalion is the type to leave survivors.  He might even consider me part of Derek’s pack and will want my nephew to kill me, although why he would want _Derek_ for his collection is beyond me.”

His brow furrows, and even Stiles has to admit that doesn’t sound like something _anyone_ would want to do.  Derek isn’t a very good Alpha, is he?  Then again, a good Alpha wouldn't kill their own pack and join Deucalion.  But as far as Stiles has seen, Derek doesn’t even _want_ to be Alpha.

“Would Deucalion consider Scott part of Derek’s pack?”  Stiles asks, the thought striking abruptly.

Peter glances sharply at him.  “Perhaps.  There’s only one Alpha in Beacon Hills, and that means every werewolf living in the territory is technically under that Alpha’s jurisdiction.  If they aren’t, then by pack law, they should be… asked to leave, if only because they’re omegas waiting to happen, and what that omega then goes on to do – maul a civilian, make an attempt on the Alpha’s life, even reveal what they are to the general public – that’s all the Alpha’s responsibility, which means the Alpha has a duty to ensure none of that happens.  Worst case scenario, the Alpha has the right to kill them.”

Stiles freezes, and under his hands, Pollux is equally motionless.

“Nobody’s killing Scott,” Stiles says quietly, and Peter inclines his head, eyes avid on Stiles’ face.

Stiles glances down at Pollux, whose lips curl back to reveal sharp white teeth.

“Don’t be stupid, Stiles,” He warns.

“No,” Stiles agrees.  “But…”

Pollux sighs.  “I’m _not_ facing down the Alpha Pack for Derek.  Or for those two pups, what’s-their-names.  But it sounds like they’ll be even more troublesome to us if they stay in this town any longer, so I suppose I’ll have to face them down for that.”

Stiles smiles, already thinking of his fairy friends.  “Poison then?”

“Poison,” Pollux grins back, and it’s a distinctly unfriendly expression.  “Wolfsbane isn’t the only thing that hurts werewolves, and the fae know them all.  Or enough to give us the firepower.  The queen wasn’t very happy when she heard you were hurt by another human and because of werewolves.”

‘Not happy’ is putting it mildly, in Stiles’ opinion.  Stiles wasn’t there when it happened but Nissa didn’t hesitate to regale him with a recount of how her mother blew up part of the palace when Nissa reported back to her.

It’s nice, Stiles decides, to have someone get angry on his behalf, even if it is kind of embarrassing at the same time.  He still isn’t used it, even if he knows – intellectually – that the fairies he interacts with genuinely care about him in a way that they literally Do Not Care about any other human on the planet.

Someone clears their throat, and Stiles’ head jerks up at the noise.  Oh, right, Peter.  Peter, who can’t quite hide the flash of hunger that puts a gleam in his eyes and an immediate snarl in Pollux’s throat.  Peter who smiles and practically purrs, “If you need any kind of assistance with hiding the bodies, Stiles, you only need to ask.”

Stiles gapes for a moment, then inexplicably flushes.  “Um.  Okay?  Wait!”  He does his best to rearrange his face into something more innocent.  “I never said I was going to poison them to _death_.”

Peter really does grin this time, wild like the beast in his soul and with so much delight Stiles is surprised it doesn’t physically manifest around him.

“It’s alright, Stiles,” Peter tells him happily.  “We all need our hobbies.”

“We don’t need _him_ ,” Pollux sulks at almost the same time.  “Except maybe as _bait_.”

Stiles sighs.  Right.  Time to derail the conversation before Pollux bites Peter.  Again.

“I don’t wanna talk about the Alpha Pack anymore,” Stiles announces, and he actually doesn’t.  He lost interest the moment he heard about Deucalion meeting with Gerard for a _truce_ of all things.  Now he’s only invested because Scott might be in danger, which means Stiles needs to kill the danger before the danger kills Scott.

Peter – shockingly enough – lets him go with that, and the slightly manic air around him ebbs.  He gets to his feet and points to the bookshelf parked against the far wall, already halfway stocked as if Peter just couldn’t help himself even with the tight budget.  “Why don’t you help yourself?  I’ll get us drinks and some snacks.  Coke okay?”

Stiles nods distractedly, already nudging Pollux off his lap before making a beeline towards the bookshelf.  He hears Peter chuckle behind him but pays little mind to it, especially when he realizes that the majority of the books on the shelf are old and written by hand.  _Lycan_ catches his eye, and he eagerly reaches for that one first.

When Peter returns, he sits down on the couch beside Stiles instead of in the armchair.  Pollux grumbles a bit but he’s curled up on the thick rug on the floor so he doesn’t mind enough to intervene.  And Stiles – leaning against one arm of the couch with his feet tucked up – is too busy learning about the effects that the phases of the moon have on werewolves to spare more than half a moment’s notice when Peter takes the other arm, picks up his own book, and settles down for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time evening falls, their legs have migrated together in a tangle, Stiles is still nose-deep in the text he picked out, and when Peter coaxes him out of his perusal long enough to suggest he and Pollux stay for dinner, Stiles doesn’t even think of saying no.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy New Year everyone ^_^ (even though this has nothing to do with New Year's lolz)**


	49. soulmates/ace fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Anonymous whispered:** steter, soulmates, ace - drabble? i'm in the mood for some high-quality steter ficcing after all the s6 gifsets but i know you're busy with exams tho so feel free to ignore =D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Asexuality, Asexual Character, Ace Stiles, Soulmates AU, Soulmates
> 
> Just moving this over here from tumblr.

 

The first time they touch each other, skin on skin, is in that dimly lit parking garage, Peter’s hand wrapped around his wrist, with a layer of clothing in-between, but all it takes is a shift of weight and a shuffle of feet, and suddenly Peter has a thumb on Stiles’ pulse point, skin on skin.

It doesn’t change anything. They freeze, they stare at each other, Peter offers the bite, like a peace offering, a condolence prize, like it’s supposed to solve everything, and Stiles turns him down, because he is nothing if not loyal, and he can’t side with the man who plans on using Scott in his revenge spree. Who’s hurtling at top speed for a cliff edge that he won’t stop for.

Peter walks away, Stiles is left behind, and they both burn that night.

 

* * *

 

And then Peter comes back, not as crazy, not as strong, lurking in the shadows and watching Stiles through hooded bright blue eyes. Stiles, for his part, avoids Peter, avoids Scott, avoids everyone else too, which actually isn’t that hard because the first seems content to observe him from afar, the second can’t see anything beyond Allison, and the third doesn’t care enough about him to seek him out in the first place as he licks his wounds and heals as best he can alone.

Students go missing, more monsters come, people die, and the disasters that nobody would call a pack are thrown together once again to fumble the best they can through the latest threats.

Now forced into closer proximity, Stiles and Peter circle each other like wolves who don’t know what to make of each other, neither taking that first step to breach the distance between them, neither willing to back off first.

Stiles isn’t afraid of him, not really. Peter had plenty of chances to hurt him, especially back when he was still mostly insane, but he never did, and he’s caught the werewolf staring at him too many times to get worked up about it.

They talk sometimes. Or rather, they snark, bandying sarcasm and wit back and forth, stilted and barbed at first, and then smoothing out to something more amused and familiar as time passes, to the point where even someone as oblivious as Scott has started giving them weird looks. Derek never really stops scowling but it looks meaner than usual when he aims it at them these days, as if they confuse him and he’s angry about it.

Stiles doesn’t let that bother him. Derek Hale stopped scaring him the third time he smacked Stiles upside the head hard enough to make his ears ring. He’s violent, but not in any sort of way that Stiles can’t stop if the man ever goes overboard, werewolf or no.

Peter is Stiles’ soulmate though, and Stiles is Peter’s, and whether that goes anywhere or not, it’s nobody’s business but theirs. So Stiles ignores the disturbed looks thrown at him, the offhand comments about how friendly he is with Peter, the not-so-subtle questions about what kind of relationship he has with the older werewolf. And as far as he can tell, Peter does the same when Derek confronts him about it, stonewalling his nephew with smirks and taunts and mockery that never fail to rile Derek up.

None of them know of course, about the two of them being soulmates. Stiles isn’t opposed to them knowing, but none of them have thought to ask either, and he’s never been one to air his personal laundry for all the world to see.

And the thing is, Stiles isn’t as attached to the concept of soulmates as a lot of other people are either. Scott thinks rainbows shine out of Allison’s ass, and he talks about her as if she never went on an extended trip into psycho land. Never helped her grandfather torture two teenagers. Never watched as Stiles was beaten and bloodied before being dumped in some dirty back alley. Granted, Scott doesn’t know about that last one but it’s also true that he has blinkered vision when it comes to his soulmate. He knew nothing about her that first day and he already professed to be in love.

And the sex. Good lord. Stiles has heard way too much about it for someone who isn’t even involved in the sex.

And it isn’t even just Scott. Stiles’ dad is - was - like that too. The Sheriff has never loved anyone as much as he loved Claudia Stilinski, and that includes his son. Stiles remembers every drink, every night he wasn’t home, every bottle thrown and every glass smashed. He just doesn’t talk about it, and if the Sheriff remembers, he doesn’t bring it up either. Sometimes, the man looks at Stiles and sees his wife and spends the rest of the weekend drinking or working. Sometimes, they’re two perfect strangers in a graveyard house.

Stiles is used to it. But is it any wonder he has a jaded view of soulmates, when he’s stood on the other side of that line and experienced firsthand what it feels like to take the blame for one pair and be the sounding board for another whose whole relationship is built on a fairy tale?

High school doesn’t do him any favours either. It’s as if teenagers constantly have nothing but sex on the brain, and that apparently translates to how amazing sex between soulmates will be. The handful of bonded pairs in school can and do attest to it. And for those who haven’t found their soulmates yet, some want to ‘save themselves’, while others want to be ‘more experienced’. Either way, _everyone talks about it_. Constantly. Enthusiastically.

It’s gross.

So for Stiles, soulmates isn’t the be all and end all of life that everyone else seems to think it is, with all the expectations that come with it. He can admit he likes the thought of having someone who is _his_ , only his, (someone who will come when he calls, someone who looks at him and doesn’t see a broken mess, someone who thinks he’s worth something), but he doesn’t want someone who will be that for him _just because_  they’re his soulmate. Just because the universe says so. Just because soulmate sex is wonderful and amazing and one of a kind. Just because they’re meant to be.

He half-thinks he might be able to have that with Peter, who can keep up with his scattered thoughts just as easily as he can make Stiles focus by bringing up some obscure supernatural topic that catches Stiles’ interest, who starts nudging food at him when they have to stay late to do research for the pack, who sits on the couch with him at pack meetings, shoulder to shoulder, warm against Stiles’ side, the silence between them mostly comfortable.

But then there are times when Peter will watch him with a look that’s impossible to mistake for anything but hunger, like a beast starved, like desire, and that - more than the stalking and past mauling and sociopathic tendencies - is what makes Stiles nervous.

Which is probably why - when, one evening, stuck at the loft doing research, and Stiles looks up just to find Peter staring at him again - the first thing Stiles’ sleep-deprived, over-caffeinated, stressed out brain blurts out is, “I don’t do the sex thing.”

Peter blinks. Then he perks up, something startled in his expression, like he’s surprised but also delighted that they finally seem to be broaching the topic both of them have been skirting around for months now.

Then he blinks again, head canting to one side, and Stiles braces himself for-

“Okay,” Peter says slowly. And then he doesn’t say anything else, and for a moment, they just stare at each other expectantly.

Peter is the first to break the silence, one eyebrow arching. “Is this you telling me you’re asexual?”

He pauses, and when Stiles just sort of fidgets, chin tipping up defiantly, and Peter seems to take that as an answer in and of itself.

He huffs a laugh in response, and Stiles immediately blisters him with a glare, shooting to his feet, torn between marching over and punching the bastard in the face and grabbing his things and fleeing, because that-

That hurt. Being laughed at, by his _soulmate_ , and maybe Stiles puts more stock in the whole soulmate business after all to be-

“Stiles,” Peter says, and he’s not laughing anymore, halfway risen out of his chair as well instead as if he means to stop Stiles from leaving. “Stiles, I already knew that. Asexual people smell a certain way. Or rather, they lack a certain smell, especially in teenagers.” His nose wrinkles a little even as his eyes stay sharp on Stiles’ face. “You don’t masturbate or have sex. Trust me when I say it makes a huge difference in your scent when compared to your average teenager. Even showers don’t wash that away. Not from a werewolf. Well,” He amends. “Not from a werewolf who knows what he’s smelling. Which doesn’t include Scott, which is why you’ll probably have to actually explain to him in tiny words if you want to stop having to hear all about his and Allison’s little trysts in bed.” Scorn curls at his lips. “Then again, you don’t have to be asexual to not want to have to hear those details.”

“…Oh,” Stiles puts his bag down, feeling a bit stupid now. “And… you’re okay with that? Er, the ace thing, not the Scott-and-Allison thing.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “What do you think I am, some hormonal teenager who can’t control my own libido? You’re looking at the wrong Hale for that.”

Stiles can’t help snorting at that one.

“I’m not ace,” Peter continues on a more serious note. “But that doesn’t mean I have to have sex. And I can just as easily use my hand or order some toys online if I want to get off. It’s hardly a deal-breaker for me, Stiles, and anyone who says it is, just because we’re soulmates, clearly doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”

Stiles coughs and nods a few times, ears a little hot. “Right, I- right.” He trails off uncertainly. If he’s honest, he actually thought this would be harder.

Peter sighs, but the sound is fond, which is the only reason Stiles can meet his gaze again without flushing further with embarrassment.

“Was that your only concern?” The man enquires, smiling again.

Stiles musters up an indignant scowl. “It’s a legitimate concern! I mean sometimes you look at me like- like-”

“Like I want to rub myself all over you,” Peter admits easily, and Stiles goes red. “And I do. I’m a werewolf, Stiles. I want my scent on you, especially when we go days without interacting and you don’t smell remotely like me anymore. That’s not the same as wanting to fuck you.”

Stiles swallows and clears his throat. “Oh. Oh, well, that’s.”

Peter eyes him carefully. “Is _that_  a deal-breaker for you?”

Stiles blinks at him. “What? No! No, of course not. I mean-” _Like I want to rub myself all over you_. Gah. How can Peter just _say_ that? But- “I’m okay with that,” Stiles repeats, hands waving to emphasize his point. “I mean, if we get to that point. Where we’re, er, that close.”

Peter smirks and gives him an over-the-top leer. Stiles blushes again even as he rolls his eyes, finally letting himself relax.

“But that’s fine,” Stiles assures. “I just… don’t want the sex.”

Peter’s eyes go soft, and he finally stands properly and prowls around the table to join Stiles at his end. Stiles holds very still as the werewolf comes to a halt in front of him, hands framing his hips, head dipping to nuzzle along his jaw. He’s surprised his heart hasn’t beaten right out of his chest with how fast it’s pounding.

“I already knew that,” Peter murmurs once more, leaning their cheeks together and breathing him in like he’d be perfectly content with just this. Then he pulls back, but only far enough so they can look at other again. Peter’s hands stay where they are, warm even through Stiles’ clothes.

“So then,” Peter cocks his head. “No sex. But how does a date sound?”

Stiles clears his throat again. His voice still comes out a little funny, especially when he finds himself having to work them out around the giddy-feeling smile on his face. “Yeah. Yeah, a date sounds good.”

Peter smiles, satisfaction and triumph both even as he swoops back in to scent Stiles’ neck. “Good.”

 


	50. Kitsune Stiles (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG I'D TOTALLY FORGOTTEN ABOUT THESE UNTIL I WAS DIGGING THROUGH MY USB TODAY AND REALIZED I ONLY EVER POSTED THIS ON TUMBLR. From my early days of writing Steter - I don't think it's too bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are a bit broken up and a mix of drabble and stream of consciousness but they're good for a light read.

 

**Prompt: Stiles is a three-tailed kitsune. He used to be like all other kitsune, mischievous and pulling pranks on mortals and supernatural alike. Used to be. At an undisclosed point in his past, an event happened that changed the fox spirit's behavior from light-hearted and fun-loving, to the sarcastic, snarky boy we all know and love. Since then, he's taken to traveling around, until he finds a town he likes and hunkers down for a year or five, integrating himself into the community with the help of his illusions. It’s unclear why he does this, as, if anyone ever figures out what he is and asks about it, he says nobody’s after him. He just travels, when the thought comes up, and settles wherever he feels Inari’s presence is strongest. Which eventually leads him straight to Beacon Hills and the Pack. The wolves are, understandably, wary of the newest supernatural creature to enter their territory, even something as ‘harmless’ as a trickster fox…**

**Stiles tends to avoid them at all costs, preferring to either snark with the local teens or wander the woods, where the animal residents tend to follow him, sometimes getting him to play. This is where he meets Peter Hale, who just can’t seem to help but want to be around the fox spirit…**

I don’t know if I’ll be able to get around to writing something like this, or if I’ll be able to write it well, but I definitely like the idea! Kitsune!Stiles with a sad/mysterious background, playing in the woods with other animalsXD The Pack would probably try to make him Pack once they realize that he doesn’t have any evil plans and he’s all alone. Peter would totally try to get to know him first before the Pack comes around, and Stiles would try to ignore him but Peter is nothing if not persistent when he wants something, and that something happens to be a several-hundred-year-old trickster fox, which means that Stiles doesn’t stand a chance. Eventually, Stiles begins opening up to Peter, and even when the rest of the Pack starts approaching him, he remains closest to the former Alpha. Peter’s also the only one who can coax some of Stiles’ old personality to the forefront, and Stiles slowly starts to trust him in return. But then whatever Stiles has been running from is about to catch up to him and it’s time for him to leave, but Peter absolutely refuses to let him run again, and he promises that they’ll deal with whatever’s been hunting Stiles. Stiles doesn’t want to leave because he’s finally found a place (person) he’d like to call home, and he’s so tired of running all the time anyway. So he agrees, and then it’s all-out war between the Pack and the newest danger, and there’s no way anyone’s going to let it get to Stiles, not to mention Peter’s always been possessive of what he considers his…

 

* * *

 

**Okay, you mentioned Peter coaxing Stiles' old personality out and the first thing that came to mind was Stiles shapeshifting while they're having a conversation. Into a beautiful woman; long legs, gorgeous hair, sexy dress and heels, and sultry voice.**

Lol I could imagine Stiles doing it just to mess with Peter. It would be hilarious if they started dating, and Stiles pretends to be someone different every time. Peter would probably be pretty amused too, but of course, he’d like Stiles’ real face and fox form best.

 

* * *

 

 **Last one, I promise... maybe. Kitsune!Stiles thinks it's adorable, when some of the jocks try to embarrass him by pulling a prank on him.** Kitsune!Stiles would totally pretend not to notice the pranks at all while evading them effortlessly, and then he’d get his revenge by pranking the jocks back tenfold. Maybe the entire school just for the heck of it. And Derek because he’s a sourwolf and Peter encouraged him.

 

* * *

 

 **Kit!Stiles gets spotted in his fox form and it causes a bit of an uproar with the local humans. Nobody's able to get him to admit if it was an accident or not. Or if he does admit it, he says it in a different language, so they're like >=/** If Kitsune get drunk, they tend to revert to their true form, so maybe Stiles gets smashed because it’s an overall bad day for him, and he wanders into town in his fox form where people see him. Next day, he’s kind of embarrassed about his loss of control so he talks circles around anyone who asks, pranks them if they get too pushy about it, and just overall goes off and sulks about it because he should be too old for drunken mistakes, and he’s still sort of depressed from old memories. Peter finds him later and doesn’t push, is mostly just amused by the panic Stiles stirred up in town. But he doesn’t like seeing Stiles all morose either so he ups and decides to drag the kitsune out of town for the weekend on a road trip or something, and after they check into an inn for the night, maybe Stiles tells some of his past to Peter, reveals some of the mystery, or he’s falling asleep curled up against Peter, isn’t really conscious of what he’s saying and ends up admitting that Peter makes him feel safe for the first time in decades/centuries, and that he really doesn’t want to leave…

 


	51. Kitsune Stiles (Pt.2)

**In that case, I’ll send any prompts that come to mind, until you say you’ve had enough, or I run out. Like what I said about the Okami (if you've even played that) kitsune, Ninetails. One-eyed. Perhaps an old scar that Stiles has become very good at hiding even in plain sight.**

> I haven’t played Okami but I can totally work with a one-eyed/scarred Stiles.

 

Stiles gets hurt.  Not badly, but it’s still humiliating.  He’s several hundred years old; he should _not_ be falling prey to Inari-forsaken _bear traps_.

 

It hurts like a bitch, physically, but his pride takes more of a blow than his foot, and even as he tries to concentrate enough through the pain to get a handle on his powers again so that he can wriggle out of the trap and fix his visibly bleeding, definitely broken ankle while he’s at it, he’s also so very glad that no one’s around to see this embarrassing occurre-

 

“Well this is a sight you don’t see every day.  I guess even ancient fox spirits can be clumsy.”

 

Stiles is extremely tempted to glare up at the sky and shout, “FUCK’S SAKE!” just to have an outlet for his ire.  Instead, he grinds his teeth and doesn't look up at the smarmy bastard behind him as he concentrates on extricating himself from the bear trap.

 

Footsteps approach.  “Need some help with that?”

 

Stiles ignores him.  He is a kitsune.  He is above being tormented by lowly mortals, especially lowly mortals whose favourite pastime is to bother him at all hours of the day.

 

“I do hope kitsune aren’t so prideful that they would turn away a generous offer of assistance.”

 

Stiles knows he’s being goaded, but he’s had a shitty day, and now his ankle is throbbing with agony, and Peter Hale won’t shut up.

 

His head snaps up, his fangs drop, and he pins the advancing werewolf with a glare that has made lesser men soil themselves.

 

“I don’t need your help,” He growls.  “So you may leave the way you came, and preferably, don’t even look back.”  He pauses when he catches sight of the odd expression on Peter’s face, of the way the man’s smirk falters.  Stiles’ eyes narrow.  “What.”

 

Peter says nothing for a moment, and then one of his hands comes up to touch his own face.  His temple actually, lightly, next to his left eye-

 

Stiles stiffens, his own hand flying up to cover the indicated area.  Inari-damn it all, his illusions are failing him because-

 

With a snarl, he wrenches his magic back under control, focuses it to an angry, lethal point, and directs it all at the trap.  The entire thing bursts into a blaze of pale blue fire, burning hot and fierce, and it melts the pathetic metal down like butter within seconds.

 

A snap of his fingers and the fire is extinguished again, leaving behind silver goop and a mangled foot.  He takes a breath.  Kitsune don’t heal as fast as werewolves but their healing factor is by no means average either.  It will just take a little time.  He can already feel his magic settling again, but just as he’s about to pull the familiar veil back over his left eye, fingers brush against his chin, and he jerks away as if scalded.

 

Peter is already backing away, hands raised in a placating gesture and narrowly dodging the swipe of Stiles’ claws that would have ripped at least half his face off if it had connected.

 

Stiles’ nostrils flare with irritation.  Peter is always like this, pushing and pushing at Stiles’ boundaries like he thinks he’s immortal, like he thinks Stiles won’t ever eviscerate him or set him on fire even when he goes too far.

 

“What happened there?”  Peter asks curiously, eyeing the left side of Stiles’ face pointedly.  Stiles knows what he sees, a mass of old scars spread over the top left half of his face from forehead to cheekbone, spanning right over his eye.

 

Stiles smiles thinly at him.  “That’s none of your concern.”

 

The werewolf cocks his head.  “Can you see out of that eye?”

 

Only shadows.  Peter doesn't need to know that.  “That’s none of your concern,” He repeats.

 

Peter shrugs, smiling easily right back in the face of a kitsune’s curtailed wrath.  He backs off though, a first.  Stiles’ own gaze flits over the right side of the werewolf’s face, all smooth, unblemished skin now, nothing left but invisible scars all over.

 

He meets Peter’s eyes again.  The man is still smiling, but it’s deliberate and fixed now as they regard each other, assessing, not quite enemies, but far from friends.

 

Stiles lets the familiar illusion of perfection ripple over his own scars, hiding them away from the world once more.

 

“You have far too much free time on your hands, Peter Hale,” Stiles remarks, tucking the last of his anger away.  “And one of these days, it’s going to get you killed.”

 

Peter just smirks.  It’s infuriating.  “Well then, it’s a good thing death doesn't seem to like me much.”

 

Stiles scoffs and turns away.  He ignores the ache in his ankle when he puts weight on it.  “You're no nekomata.  Don't think you'll always be so lucky.”

 

And without waiting for a reply, Stiles lets his fox form flow over him like water, transforming as easy as breathing.  He’s on four legs in a matter of seconds, and then he’s off, bounding away through the forests of Beacon Hills, his three tails trailing behind him.

 


	52. Kitsune Stiles (Pt.3)

 

**Lydia tries to give Kitsune!Stiles fashion advice.**

 

Stiles cocks his head.  “Why not?”

“Dresses are for girls,” Lydia tells him distractedly as she holds up a shirt that honestly looks a lot like the half dozen other shirts she’s already had him try on, matching it with khaki pants, a brown leather belt, a forest green jacket, and boots.  “Here, go try these on.”

Stiles sighs but indulges the banshee.  He did promise to go shopping with her, _without_ using his illusions to produce clothes out of thin air, although if he knew it would be this dull, he wouldn't have.

“In my day, when I was a kit,” Stiles tells her once he’s thrown the clothes on and come back out to let her inspect him.  “Humans showed far less skin, especially the females.”

He eyes both her top with a neckline that dips quite a bit below her collarbones, as well as her skirt that doesn't even reach her knees.  All in all, this is already pretty modest since it's also a long-sleeve, and he's seen even scantier on other people.

“You're not going to be a prude, are you?”  Lydia arches an imperious eyebrow, and the automatic lift of her chin is beautifully regal.  Sometimes, with her shimmering fire hair and the sharp intelligence in her eyes, she reminds Stiles of a queen dragon.  Is it any wonder that – out of the local pack – she is his favourite?

Aside from Peter of course.  Peter can’t be categorized.  Stiles is still trying to figure out whether or not that irritates him.

“No,” He says now, honest.  “But I just don’t see the point.  Whether you wear these clothes or a paper bag, it’s not like you’ll change.  Either way, you’d still be just as pretty.”

A splash of pink rises in Lydia’s cheeks, quickly quelled, but a pleased smile curves her lips even as she starts examining him again.  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, trickster.  Besides, paper bags can get a bit drafty.  I don’t think I’d like them very much.”

Stiles nods thoughtfully.  That makes sense.

“Is that why you always wear so many layers of plaid?”  Lydia prods as she adjusts his coat.  “Because you're used to covering up?”

“Not really,” Stiles denies easily.  “It’s not like kitsune need clothes in their natural form.  I just like them; they're comfortable.”

His gaze drifts over to the left again.  “Are you sure I can’t try that on?”

Lydia follows his line of sight, lips pursing when she sees the garnet red dress.  The fabric flows down in a way that reminds Stiles of some of the rivers in Normandy when the sun is going down and setting the waters ablaze.

“Well, you could,” Lydia concedes.  “But...”

Stiles tilts his head, regarding her intently for a moment before realization dawns.  “Ah, it’s one of those socially unacceptable human things, isn’t it?  For males to wear female clothes.”

Lydia sniffs and waves an authoritative hand, expression firming into something more determined.  “Only to the small-minded.  Alright, if you want to wear dresses, then we’ll get you dresses.  Come on, let’s go find your size.”

Stiles brightens at once and hurries after her, easily keeping up with her brisk pace as she marches over to the female section of the store.

Later, when Lydia catches one of the employees wrinkling his nose in disgust as Stiles twirls in front of a mirror to admire the way the skirt flares outward, Stiles has to grin when the banshee pins the man with a witheringly haughty you-aren’t-fit-to-shine-my-scales look that’s powerful enough to make the employee recoil.

Dragon indeed.

 

* * *

 

“Dude, what are you wearing?”  The most puppyish werewolf gawks as soon as Lydia leads Stiles through the door.

Stiles still hasn't gotten the hang of matching everyone’s names to faces yet.  He’s pretty sure this one starts with an S though.

“What does it look like, Scott ( _Ah, that’s right, Scott._ )?”  Lydia shoots back without missing a beat, pulling Stiles forward by the hand.  She smiles, coolly satisfied.  “Doesn’t it look absolutely stunning on him?”

“But, uh...” Another of the wolves – the newest one, Leo?  Leon? – blinks rapidly at Stiles before looking over at Scott for a cue that isn’t at all forthcoming.  Scott flounders, clearly out of his depth.

Stiles quirks a slightly fanged smile.  Humans – even were’s – are so very funny.

“You look nice,” The one with the scarf offers.  He doesn't look quite as off-balanced, and the compliment is genuine if broad.

Stiles executes a neat spin in his new heels for the werewolf just for that comment before grinning openly.  “Thank you.”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Isaac,” Lydia interjects pointedly, giving everyone else an exceedingly unimpressed look.  Stiles makes an effort to commit that name to memory.

“It looks great on you,” The female hunter pipes up, getting to her feet and bouncing over with the half-kitsune for a closer look.  “Red’s really your colour.”

Allison.  And Kira.  Artemis, and the lightning fox.  There’s only one of each in the local pack so Stiles remembers them.

From across the room, Derek grunts in their general direction before returning to his weights.  Not very eloquent, that one, which is surprising considering that he’s Peter’s nephew.

In the end, Stiles gets a mix of remarks that vary from awkward to enthusiastic, but none of them are truly unkind, and he wouldn't care even if they were.

“Is Peter here?”  Stiles can’t help asking, tamping his voice down to something nonchalant.

Lydia throws him a knowing look that blends exasperation with resignation.

“He’s probably off creeping on some poor unsuspecting soul,” Cora huffs from the couch with a roll of her eyes.

Stiles acknowledges this wordlessly.  He’s learned that the entire Pack doesn't trust Peter, not even his blood kin.

He thinks it sounds rather lonely – especially for a werewolf – but it’s not his place to pass judgement, and it’s not like he has room to talk anyway.

 

* * *

 

Later, as he heads back to his apartment with a bag of new clothes in hand, Stiles entertains himself along the way by seeing how many humans he can freak out just by walking past them in his new outfit.  He’s tweaked his hair a bit so that it falls past his ears but he hasn't bothered adding any other female assets.  He is still very obviously male.

His count is up to forty-six at the moment.

“Fag,” A brawny man mutters, giving Stiles a wide berth as they walk past each other as if Stiles carries the plague.  That makes forty-sev-

He frowns and nimbly sidesteps out of the way when he hears the sound of spitting.  It just misses the hem of his skirt.

Okay, less amusing, more revolting.  Also, rude.

Something blurs past him from his peripheral vision but Stiles doesn't sense any danger so he only watches with raised eyebrows as the man who just spat at him is lifted clean off his feet and unceremoniously slammed against the trunk of a nearby tree.

The blur clears, and a very familiar werewolf is left standing there, one hand wrapped around the terrified human’s throat, and a lethally pleasant smile curling his lips, his eyes only a hairsbreadth away from the electric blue of a beta.

“That was very rude,” Peter begins silkily, echoing Stiles’ musings.  His hand constricts.  The man scrabbles uselessly at his neck.  “I do believe you should apologize.”

The man makes a choking noise.

Peter’s sneer becomes more pronounced.  “What was that?  I couldn't hear you.”

Stiles looks on as the human’s face rapidly becomes purple, waits for a few seconds longer, and then sighs.  “Peter.”

Icy blue slices over to him, and then – three heartbeats later – the werewolf relinquishes his prey.  The man collapses in a heap of limbs, gasping for oxygen and spluttering gibberish.

Peter scoffs, jams a foot in the human’s ribs, and growls, “Apologize.”

“S- Sorry!”  The man squeaks, eyes darting between Stiles and Peter.  “I'm sorry!  W- Won’t happen again!”

Peter doesn't look any less forgiving but he shoves away from the man, leaving him gurgling on the ground, and saunters over to Stiles, his features smoothing out into something more charming.

It does nothing to hide the hungry gleam in his eyes.

“You look positively enchanting tonight, Stiles,” Peter drawls.

Stiles rolls his eyes, stomps down hard on the swell of pleasure inside him, and turns to continue on his way.  Peter falls into step beside him.

“Are you sure you don’t mean edible?”  He retorts sardonically.

Peter’s smirk is entirely too wicked.  “Well, I was trying to be a gentleman but now that you mention it...” The werewolf slings an arm around Stiles’ waist before leaning in to scent him, head dipping to brush his nose along Stiles’ jawline.

“I’m sure I mean _ravishing_ ,” Peter purrs in his ear.

Stiles snorts, fighting down a ridiculous smile.  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” He says loftily.

“It isn’t flattery if it’s true,” Peter points out, pulling back but not removing his arm.  Stiles only considers ripping it off for a second.

“You don’t compliment me half as much when I'm all curves and flawless skin!”  Stiles protests indignantly.

Peter waves a dismissive hand.  “Those weren’t you.  _This_ though, this is your body and your face, and even your hair is the same aside from the slight difference in length.”  He cants his head to the side, and his smirk softens briefly into a genuine smile.  “You're beautiful when you're yourself, and the red brings out your eyes.”

Stiles is too old to blush.  Really.

Peter smirks at him again, all debonair arrogance once more.  “Now then, how about I take you out for dinner?  Somewhere fancy.  Just the two of us.”

“Nice try,” Stiles finally elbows him in the side to make him let go.  “Not happening, wolf.”

“Night in it is then,” Peter agrees easily.  “I’ll cook.”

Stiles opens his mouth to object.  He pauses when Peter produces from out of nowhere a stack of-

“I have the entire series of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on Blu-ray,” The werewolf blatantly bribes.

Stiles twitches.  “...Your food better be five-star.”

Peter just grins, annoyingly triumphant.

 


	53. Kitsune Stiles (Pt.4)

 

**Kit!Stiles is injured by a hunter, in fox form, with a bullet in his hip. When he's finally cornered and too tired to use his magic anymore, he's unexpectedly saved. Whether by Peter, the Pack, both, or, even surprising him, the local wildlife.**

 

Stiles runs.

 

He runs and runs and runs, not daring to stop for fear of being caught.

 

This is his fault, he supposes.  This is what he gets for falling in with a godforsaken pack of idiots stationed in a hellmouth town.  Honestly, when Derek was poisoned by that hydra right before the rest of the pack finally brought it down for good, Stiles could've pretended not to know a cure.  The others certainly didn't, not even their resident druid, who managed to slow the process but not stop it.

 

 _“Hydra venom is fatal,”_ The man proclaimed grimly, and he wasn't wrong.  Hydra venom _is_ fatal, and most people believe that once poisoned, the victim would already have one foot in the grave.  The rest of them would simply be in store for a slow agonizing death.

 

Stiles however isn’t most people.  He’s lived for nigh on four hundred years, and he’s the curious sort; he’s bound to pick up things here and there, and he’s always loved to learn.  So he knows that there’s an ancient little temple deep in the Absaroka Range of the Rocky Mountains in Wyoming, one that houses a small spring of purified water with properties that can heal just about anything.

 

Stiles isn’t all that close to Derek; they've probably shared twenty words altogether.  And he isn’t even part of that stupid misfit pack to begin with, even if he has lent them a hand on occasion lately.  Mostly, he just adores Lydia for her fierce, clever nature, and Peter won’t leave him alone.  The others are passing acquaintances, friends by extension at most, and if they die tomorrow, Stiles might feel a little sad at their passing, but ultimately, it wouldn’t affect him all that much.

 

But, lurking outside in the shadows of the Hale House while the druid worked on Derek inside because the werewolf was in too much pain to be brought all the way back to the clinic, when the bleak pronouncement was made that Derek would not have long left and that there was nothing anybody could do, Stiles heard the frantic denials, smelled the grief, and – when Peter slipped outside, silent and unnoticed by everyone else – saw the bloom of raw, soul-deep anguish dawn on the supposedly heartless sociopath’s face even as the man stared out across a dead front lawn that – once upon a time – must have been alive and unburned and had children running and laughing all over it.

 

It was the last that decided it for Stiles, and one day, he may or may not sit down and ask himself why exactly it was that one human – werewolf but still _mortal_ nonetheless – could affect him so much to the point where he’s willing to risk life and limb just to alleviate some of that man’s distress.

 

After that, he leaves without a word to anyone once he hears the Pack’s collective decision to do some admittedly desperate research instead of simply giving up.  The druid shakes his head – already resigned – but agrees to do his best to prolong Derek’s life while they pour over dusty tomes.

 

Stiles doesn't wait around to see more, heading north immediately in full kitsune form.  He’s faster than any regular animal, faster than any vehicle on the road, and he races over rough terrain and lush green fields both, never stopping for rest or food because he’s also racing against time.

 

It takes a few days but he hits the Rockies soon enough, and then it’s all an uphill climb of rock and snow.  Or it would've been if he didn't possess the ability to fly.  He would've earlier but humans these days, sees a flying fox and calls the cops of all people.  On the other hand, sees the end of the world approach, and they all whip out their cell phones to take video.

 

Humans.  He’ll never understand them.

 

Still, the land is easy enough to navigate, and it isn’t the journey that worries him; it’s the destination.  His destination is a temple – problem is, temples come with monks and priests and other blessed folk with blessed weapons that are not so blessed for kitsune like Stiles.

 

It’s a tiny, isolated, barely-worth-being-called-a-temple place, but there’s a reason its existence has been kept such a closely guarded secret.  The purified water is some of the oldest and therefore strongest around, and there aren’t many natural _spiritual_ springs like that left in the entire world, some used up, some polluted, some destroyed.  The one Stiles is heading to is one of the remaining two in all of the United States of America, and he only has a vague idea of the other spring’s location.  He’s sure he can find it if he sets his mind to it but he doesn't have time, not now.

 

There’s a trick to getting the water.  Selfishness must be discarded – only the very minimum of what you require is allowed to be taken, and the water must be obtained for the critical needs of others and not for oneself; otherwise, you could bring a bucket and scoop until the blood moon rises, and you still wouldn't be able to retrieve a single drop.

 

Fortunately for everybody involved, this is probably one of the few most selfless acts Stiles has ever carried out in the past two and a half centuries, and he acquires the water with little trouble, filling up the small vial he brought along for this very task.  And then he’s off again down the mountain, heading back to Beacon Hills post haste, and hoping that his trip has not been in vain.  He’ll rip someone’s throat out if Derek died while he was gone.

 

Of course, it doesn't go that smoothly.  Once the water is out of the spring, it’s free game, and they may call themselves monks and priests and whatnot, but they're still human, and greed is human nature.

 

Stiles isn’t careful enough, and his magic is fairly low on account of having used most of it to make himself even faster on the way here, not to mention flying up and through a mountain range, and then remaining invisible on the way to the spring.  And it isn’t as if the spring is off-limits or anything, but evidently it was better to sneak in than to walk in in full view, if only because as soon as one of the humans catch sight of Stiles on his way out, they give chase.

 

And unlike regular hunters, these ones know how to hunt kitsune, and their tenacity knows no bounds, especially when what’s practically the equivalent of the elixir of life is on the line.

 

So here he is, back in California, and _still_ being pursued.  He’s managed to kill seven out of the ten that came after him but one of the bastards managed to nail him with a bullet to his lower left side that’s screaming at him in pain and leaving a crimson trail for all and sundry to follow.

 

 _This_ is why he doesn't do selfless shit.  It always goes wrong for him.

 

He’s close to Beacon Hills now, and a part of him – instinct – is tempted to release a howl for help.  But he bites it back because they're not his pack, and loners like Stiles, well, they take care of themselves.

 

Minutes later, he’s running through the forests of Beacon Hills.  A bullet zings over his head from the right, and without looking around, one of his tails snap out, and a pale blue ball of foxfire hurtles in the direction of where the bullet originated from.  There’s a scream, before the smell of burning flesh fills his nostrils.

 

Stiles would bare his fangs in a sadistic display of glee if his mouth isn’t full of the pouch containing the precious vial of water.

 

He’s almost at the Hale House when something flashes in his peripheral vision, and he has to throw himself out of the way to avoid the flying knife.  Pain sears along his injured side, and he finds himself collapsing again halfway to his feet.  Mere seconds later, the last two monks come bursting into the clearing, wearing robes and wielding blades like some demented real-life version of Jedi.

 

“The water, fox,” One of them puffs out, red-faced with exertion but eyes gleaming with triumph.  “Hand it over and we’ll let you go.”

 

Stiles heaves himself up as best he can, backing up against a tree as he keeps both targets within his line of sight.  His lips peel back in a snarl even as his teeth tighten around the drawstring of the pouch.  That last blast of fire not two minutes ago was all the magic he could use at this point in time; he has nothing left but he’ll be damned if these humans get this water.

 

He takes a breath.  And then he forces himself to his feet and darts off once more, lunging for the safety of the nearest copse of trees.

 

He gets three steps before something embeds itself into his back leg, and then he’s down in a haze of acid-hot agony, an animalistic scream tearing itself from his throat as whatever poison was on the blade begins spreading through his bloodstream.

 

“Stupid fox.  Should've listened.”

 

“We weren’t going to let it go anyway.”

 

Stiles’ working paws scrabble uselessly against the leafy forest floor.  He’s almost four hundred years old.  He survived when his entire family didn't.  He’s always been fine on his own.  And he’s _so damn close_.

 

This is _not_ how he’s going to go down.

 

Except it seems like it is because someone kicks one of his tails, and someone else laughs and steps on another, and everything hurts, and all Stiles knows is that he can’t unclench his teeth, can’t let go of the bag, can’t give up the water-

 

A terrifying roar shatters the muted buzz filling Stiles’ ears, the laughter cuts off, replaced by an unmanly shriek, and then the thunder of numerous footsteps against the forest floor is reverberating under Stiles, someone is hovering over him, and there are cries for mercy and more inhuman snarls and-

 

“-bring Deaton here!”  Somebody is shouting, but the words are mangled like they're being yelled through a mouthful of-

 

The bag.  The water.

 

With herculean effort, Stiles opens his eyes ( _When did they close?_ ), only to find his vision filled with the blurry partially wolfed out figure of Peter Hale.

 

“Don’t move,” Peter growls at him even as the werewolf reverts back to completely human save for the eyes that glow an electric blue.  “You're losing too much blood.  Why didn't you howl, you fool?  Why didn't you call for help?  This close, any of us would've heard you!  Where have you been anyway?  How did you get into this mess?”

 

Stiles tunes him out a third of the way into the interrogation.  He’s more numb than anything else, and part of him realizes that Peter is draining some of his pain.  Instead, he finally relaxes his jaws and lets go of his priceless package.

 

“Derek,” He rasps out, and his mouth is still full of elongated canines but sometime between getting knifed and now, he’s receded partway to human again for the first time in a week.

 

Peter’s features tighten.  “At the rate things are going, he won’t survive the night anyway.  Don’t worry; Deaton can leave Derek long enough to tend to you.”

 

If Stiles had the energy, he would snort because apparently, even Peter has his number when it comes to self-interest, but he doesn't so he settles for shaking his head feebly instead before nudging the bag forward an inch with his nose/snout.

 

“Derek,” He repeats, listing sideways, eyes drooping again already.  “Drink.  Heal ’im.”

 

The last thing he sees is the vividly stunned comprehension on Peter’s face.

 

If Stiles doesn't survive this, then he supposes that leaving this world with that single expression fixed in his mind isn’t such a bad way to go.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes, Stiles doesn't open his eyes right away.  After all these years, he’s learned how to not give himself away, just in case.

 

But the world is quiet around him, thrumming with multiple heartbeats, but they're slow with the drag of slumber.

 

Someone’s piled blankets on top of him, and they pool around his waist as he sits up.  He recognizes the Pack’s den – loft – and he’s been placed on the largest couch.  Everyone else – literally everyone else – is either curled up together on the other furniture or sprawled on the floor.  Either way, they're all _here_.

 

His eyes search out Lydia on a separate couch, who has Artemis – Allison – draped on top of her, and then he finds Peter, who’s sitting at the end of the couch Stiles is on, arms crossed and upright but chin tucked down and asleep.

 

Derek is here too, over in one of the armchairs with his feet propped up on the coffee table, snoring softly.  He looks much better than the last time Stiles saw him, still a little pale but certainly no longer on the brink of death.

 

Stiles scans the room again, at the pack gathered around him, and all of a sudden, he feels claustrophobic.  He doesn't like being here, surrounded like this.

 

(Or maybe a part of him does, but that part’s long buried and best left forgotten.)

 

Silently, he sheds the blankets and gets to his feet, swaying a little before steadying.  His right calf aches, his left hip is still sore, and his magic isn’t back at full capacity yet, but overall, he’s a lot better than he expected to be.

 

He’s in a shirt and a pair of sweatpants, neither of which is his, both of which smell like Peter, and he’ll be returning them as soon as he can get his hands on his own clothes and get these washed.

 

He’s barefoot too, which helps as he pads towards the door, scooting around the bodies on the ground before getting stumped by the closed entrance.  Opening it would definitely promise a not-so-clean getaway.  Maybe he can throw the door open and simply scurry out before anybody could stop him?  Or-

 

“Leaving so soon?”

 

Stiles – embarrassingly enough – freezes, and then almost trip as he whirls around to find Peter stretching languidly from his spot on the couch.  In contrast, his blue eyes are sharp and unwavering on Stiles.

 

Stiles tenses and shrugs, inwardly grimacing when he sees the others beginning to stir.  “There’s nothing to do here so I figured I might as well head back to my apartment.”

 

“Hm, true,” Peter agrees.  “But you could at least say goodbye first.”

 

Scott’s head pops up from behind the coffee table, and he peers groggily over at Stiles.  “Dude, you leavin’ already?  We haven’t even thanked you yet!”  He reaches over and thumps Derek’s ankle, the man himself already rousing.  “ _Derek_ hasn't thanked you yet either.”

 

Stiles stiffens uncomfortably.  “I don’t-”

 

“ _What_ are you doing?”  Lydia’s voice is impressively bossy for someone who just woke up.  “You can’t be seen in public like that!”

 

“He looks fine,” Peter says almost defensively even while giving Stiles a not so subtle leer.

 

“He looks like a hobo,” Lydia retorts, beckoning imperiously at Stiles.  “And he’s certainly not going out like that!”

 

“Lydia, be nice,” Allison admonishes around a stifled yawn, though there’s a smile peeking out from behind her hand as well.  “Maybe a shower first, Stiles?”

 

“You girls gonna start pamperin’ him with beauty products next?”  The newest wolf – Stiles can never remember his name even as he’s slowly learned the others – grumbles from somewhere on the floor.

 

As they wake up one by one, the Pack doesn't waste time dissolving into a bickering match, and Stiles takes the opportunity to turn for the door again, using a little of his magic to manipulate the lock before proceeding to slide the door open.

 

A hand lands against the door, and Stiles sighs before glancing up.  “I'm leaving.  Move, Peter.”

 

There’s a steely glint in Peter’s eyes.  “Not yet, Stiles.  Please,” He adds, and it actually sounds sincere as the man gestures back at the room at large.  “Stay a while longer.”

 

Stiles’ lips thin but he does look back at the Pack when he realizes that they've gone quiet.  Scott’s pulled himself to his feet, looking sleep-rumpled but determined.  And Derek hasn't gotten up but he’s leaning forward, and he’s watching Stiles rather intently now.

 

“Stiles,” Scott takes a step forward, and he looks nervous.  He looks seventeen.  But he also looks like an Alpha, and Stiles can at least listen.  “Thank you.  I- The hunters that were chasing you told us everything.  Well, not everything, just what they knew, but they told us about the spring and the temple in Wyoming and what the water was, although we sort of figured that out for ourselves after the poison in Derek cleared up in like half an hour.  Deaton is over the moon about it, and I think he really wants to talk to you if you're okay with it, but that can be for later.  And, um, you got hurt bringing it back to us, and that’s- just, thanks.  We- We couldn't find a cure, so without that water, he- he would've died, so thanks.”  He looks so painfully earnest, and so painfully young.  “We’ve already lost too much.  It would've been- We don’t want to lose anyone else, and if you hadn't done what you did, we would've.”

 

Stiles stares for a bit before nodding indifferently, and because he’s what every human from here to Timbuktu would call an asshole, he also says, “That’s great.  But I didn't do it for you so your gratitude is pretty pointless.  _Now_ can I go?”

 

Scott doesn't seem offended though, nor do the others who grin at each other like they're sharing a private joke.  Scott even beams a little at Stiles as if Stiles said something gracious and friendly instead.

 

Why is everyone in Beacon Hills so damn strange?

 

Derek clears his throat, and he automatically frowns when Stiles glances at him.  But then he says, “Thanks,” and it’s gruff but it’s also honest, and there’s a measure of respect in the nod he offers Stiles that wasn't there before.  Not that Derek has ever nodded at Stiles before, but he does now like- like- like they're _packmates_ who’ve helped one another.

 

And truth be told, it makes Stiles’ skin crawl, being bombarded by all this feel-good fuzzy crap, and more than ever, he wants to get out of here.

 

“I didn't do it for _you_ either!”  He snaps, and with a huff, he turns on his heel, yanks open the door, and before anyone can stop him, he’s already shifted back to fox, clothes falling to the floor as he darts out of the loft.

 

They make him uneasy, this pack of misfits that shouldn't fit but does anyway, and he hates it.  They make him feel like he has indigestion from a four-day-old mouse.

 

(They make him feel things he hasn't felt in well over two hundred and fifty years.)

 

* * *

 

Stiles isn’t all that surprised when a quiet knock sounds at his door later that night.  He isn’t all that surprised to open it and find Peter standing outside either.

 

“I'm marathoning Disney,” Stiles growls, refusing to budge from the doorway.  “Which I'm sure would bore you to tears, so-”

 

“On the contrary,” Peter’s foot jams into the space between frame and door before Stiles can shut it completely.  “I would love to watch Disney movies with you.”

 

He smirks winningly in a way that would make a saint want to punch him, and Stiles wonders how this man has managed to live this long without someone snapping and cutting his life short.

 

Oh wait, they have.  It just hasn't taken.  He’s so annoying that not even death wanted him.

 

“I can stand here all night,” Peter declares smugly.

 

 _And I can set you on fire_ , Stiles thinks savagely, fingers sparking momentarily with foxfire, there and gone within a heartbeat, but he can’t bring himself to actually say it out loud.

 

Inari help him, this town has made him soft.  Or maybe _Peter’s_ made him soft, and isn’t that just irony for you?

 

“Whatever,” He sighs at last, stepping back to let the werewolf in.  “I'm too tired to argue.”

 

Peter looks far too pleased with himself even as he settles on one end of the couch in the sitting room while Stiles curls up on the other, and that’s where they stay for the next forty-five minutes as Tangled pans out on the screen.

 

(Stiles sort of falls a little bit in love with Rapunzel, who’s gutsy and curious, and yes, very naive, but she’s also certainly no damsel in distress.)

 

“Why _did_ you save Derek?”  Peter asks right after Eugene’s near death scene is over.

 

Stiles is mildly disgruntled at being interrupted, and by a question he has no wish to answer to boot, but Peter doesn't give him much of a choice.

 

“You're not one to go out of your way to save someone you don’t get close enough to care about,” The werewolf continues blithely.  “So why would you travel all the way to Wyoming, knowing you would run the risk of being hunted, all for Derek?”

 

Stiles grunts noncommittally and doesn't answer, but in response to this, Peter just stares and stares and stares some more, and then Tangled ends, and Stiles doesn't even have the excuse of being immersed in the rolling credits anymore when the screen returns to the main menu.

 

Peter is still staring.

 

With a snarl and a flash of fangs, Stiles slices a glare into the infuriating man sitting in his den.  “Well he’s _your_ nephew, isn’t he?  I take it you're not _complaining?_ ”

 

He gets up irritably and goes to change the movie.  He wants something a little older next.  Maybe Atlantis?

 

When he turns back for the remote, Peter is standing an inch away, and before Stiles can claw his face off or step back or even squeak, the werewolf swoops in, captures his lips in a kiss for a second, two, and then throws himself backwards just as Stiles’ higher mental functions reboot and his claws unsheathe, swiping upwards with deadly intent.

 

“You- You can’t just-!”  Stiles splutters, _so_ unbecoming, and Peter’s just laughing like he isn’t in imminent danger with a side of death.  Stiles dives at him, and they go down in a tangle of limbs.

 

Ten minutes later, they're both lying on the living room floor and healing from scratches caused by their impromptu wrestling match.

 

Peter moves first, daring to press yet another fleeting kiss to Stiles’ temple before hoisting himself to his feet.  Stiles scowls but he’s too tired to launch another assault.  Maybe tomorrow.

 

“Atlantis then?”  Peter enquires lightly as if nothing happened.  “I haven’t watched this one in ages so I'm up for it.”

 

Stiles grumbles under his breath before rolling to his feet as well.  “You have a death wish, wolf.”

 

Peter only smiles at him, and not his usual smirky one either.  It’s small and quiet and slightly crooked, and Stiles absolutely hates it.

 

“You haven’t killed me yet, fox,” Peter returns flippantly.  “And I rather doubt you ever will.  Now sit down while I put this in.”

 

Stiles shoots him an aggravated look but grudgingly sits down.  As Atlantis starts, and Peter joins him on the couch again, he doesn't even growl when the werewolf’s leg brushes against his own.

 

Inari help him, Peter’s made him soft.

 


	54. Where Poppies Grow (Pt.1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the world is a quiet place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, Post Season 5, Nogitsune, Nemeton, Preslash, Spark Stiles, Beacon Hills

 

The end of the world is a quiet place.  With the population cut by at least half, most technology no longer working, and what remains of humanity having finally adjusted to the various methods of putting down any walking dead they come across, the combination cancels out a lot of the noise that used to be part of everyday life.

Beacon Hills is especially so.  There are no dead here.  But there are also no living humans aside from Stiles.

 

* * *

 

To this day, Stiles still isn’t sure if it was just a series of unfortunate accidents or if someone somewhere actually meant to kick off the biggest clusterfuck the world has ever seen since the beginning of time.  If anyone was crazy enough and power-hungry enough, Theo probably fit the bill.  When he brought the chimeras back from the dead, whatever he did brought _everyone_ back from the dead.  Even worse, not just _everyone_ _in Beacon Hills_.  _Everyone_ , period.  At the same time.  And the very worst thing of all, he brought them back _wrong_.

Stiles was at home when it started, grabbing a change of clothes in an empty house, his father near death in the hospital, and not even an apology from Scott, only condemnation for killing someone who tried to kill him.

He happened to glance out a window and promptly got a front-row seat to the neighbour’s three-years-dead dog digging itself out of its grave and mauling old Mrs. Malloy before she could do anything more than scream.

The rest is history.  In the few minutes it took Stiles to rush out the front door, the street was already filling up with staggering, rotting figures, a group of whom all converged on him the moment they laid eyes on him.  Stiles barely made it back into his house, and he only managed to stop them from breaking down the door by grabbing his dad’s backup piece from the safe and shooting each one in the head from an upstairs window.  But the crack of the shots only attracted more zombies, and Stiles had no choice but to wait them out, hoping they’d move on soon, because one gun, a handful of bullets, and even his baseball bat would do nothing but get him killed if he attempted to charge out and force his way to the hospital.

So he waited, and he watched, and he waited some more.  He saw the military fly overhead and disappear into the distance, choppers black against a smoke-grey sky, too occupied with more important matters than a little backwater town and its people.  He beat a zombie to death with his bat when it broke through the kitchen window.  He closed the curtains and pretended he didn’t see the feeding frenzy at the end of the street.

When most of the zombies finally moved on, hungering for prey elsewhere, Stiles ventured out at last, armed with his bat, a few knives, and a gun in his belt.  He didn’t dare take the car, sticking to shadows and alleys and making his way to the hospital as quickly as he could.

The building was overrun by the time he got there.  And trying to enter was just another name for suicide.

He thinks he went into shock for a little while after that.  He remembers the days after realizing his dad was probably dead – or _undead_ – in flashes, stumbling around Beacon Hills in a daze, trying to find other survivors, trying to figure out what to do with himself.  It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed.

He couldn’t quite bring himself to leave, not without knowing for certain whether or not his dad was turned.  He had to see it for himself.

Five months down the road, when Stiles had long given up on finding another living soul and had instead started cleaning out the town one zombie at a time, sometimes with his bat, sometimes with the cache of guns he lifted from the station, sometimes when his Spark felt up to giving him a hand, he finally managed to clear the hospital from top to bottom.

The rotting, screaming face of his father leaping out at him from behind an abandoned car in the underground parking lot would stay with Stiles for the rest of his life.

It took him almost a year and a half to put down every undead citizen of Beacon Hills, systematically burning a pile of them every week like clockwork.  He even cleaned out Eichen House, which had been cracked wide open, no Dread Doctors, and anything with a whit of sense and enough skill to get out before a zombie could bite them was long gone.  Anything left behind – former patients, former doctors, a couple chimeras, several dozen wendigos, a sphinx, and an abomination that might’ve once been a female werewolf and a harpy before they were stitched together – Stiles killed.

He never found Peter.  Part of him thought _well, of course_ , and the other part breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

He went to Deaton’s clinic too.  Flamethrowered all the pets that were somehow infected, poured more water for the skinny, suspicious cat that somehow survived and was smart enough to stay close to the bags of food that Deaton presumably emptied all over the floor after he released all the pets from their cages, and then proceeded to raid Deaton’s library.

He found the nogitsune.  He released them at the edge of Beacon Hills, and after a moment of hanging in the air as a swarm of angry buzzing flies, they coalesced into shadowy folds that resembled a nine-tailed fox.  For a minute, they only stared at each other.  Then Stiles turned and walked back into town.  The nogitsune didn’t attack him, and when Stiles looked back, they were gone.

It took him another year to sweep out the forests, animals included.  The cat from Deaton’s clinic took to following him around, somehow knowing to kill the undead rodents and moderately smaller animals like raccoons and crows but only with her claws, and she never tried to eat them.  A mountain lion with a chunk of its neck missing almost ripped his throat out once.  Stiles killed it, and then he had to sit down for a good long laugh.  He laughed until he cried, and he cried until a chimera came charging out to take a swipe at him, all mad eyes and foaming at the mouth until Stiles’ magic seized it in mid-jump and tore it to pieces.

Its name was Tracy Stewart once upon a time.  Stiles burned the body to ashes along with all the others.

By the time the third year into the apocalypse came to a close, Stiles could sit cross-legged anywhere in or out of town, senses stretching the length and width of Beacon Hills, and anything dead that crossed the borders never made it further than a lurching foot.

Stiles could’ve left then.  He’d buried his father’s ashes beside his mother’s second grave.  And he was probably powerful enough at that point to hold his own against anything he could come across.  But he didn’t know where he should go.  Didn’t know if anyone he knew was even still alive.

And he didn’t know if they would welcome him even if he found them because there wasn’t a single inch of Beacon Hills he didn’t sift through, and he personally killed every single zombie – human or animal or supernatural – that fed on this town, and he knew with utter certainty that Scott and Lydia and Malia and all the others, all his old friends, hadn’t been among them.  He’d found his parents, and he’d found the chimeras, though not Theo.  He’d found Allison and Victoria.  He’d found Finstock and Harris.  He’d even found Deaton, a messy bite on his arm but a bullet in his brain, decayed body locked in a floor to ceiling cage in the clinic with the key thrown clean across the room.

(That was probably the only moment in the course of their entire acquaintance that Stiles felt any kind of respect for Alan Deaton.)

Perhaps they’d been bitten and then their zombie hindbrain took them out of town and to some other place to hunt.  Perhaps they got out with their families in time.  Perhaps they thought he’d already been dead when they decided to leave.  Perhaps they didn’t care enough to make sure.

In the end, it didn’t really matter.  The only concrete fact that remained was that Stiles had been left behind, no one was waiting for him, and he had nowhere left to go.

So he stayed, and the fourth, fifth, and sixth years were spent cleaning up.  Rebuilding.  Creating.

He visited the Nemeton and found something tired and lonely and dying in its place, as much as a tree can be any of those things.  It reached out tentatively when he touched it, like it was uncertain of its welcome, but when all Stiles did was feed it some of his magic, it offered memories in return, rituals and spells, hunters and werewolves and witches and druids, life and death and everything in-between, all the things it’s ever witnessed in its long, long life from the time it first took up guardianship of this piece of land until now.

Stiles kept feeding it magic, a little bit each day in-between his other work – getting rid of rubble and remaking the town to his liking – and it only took three months for it to become as tall as the trees that surrounded it.  The Nemeton no longer felt tainted, and while it might not be at full strength, it grew stronger every day, and soon, Stiles no longer had to keep a conscious eye on Beacon Hills’ borders for unwanted guests because the Nemeton did it for him.  It got rid of anyone who tried to enter, lethally when it was zombies or those looking to cause trouble, and simply rebuffed by sentient roots when it was groups travelling through or stumbling upon the town.

The fourth year passed, and the fifth year began.  Stiles still did not feel up to company, and so the Nemeton refused to allow anyone in.

(A reputation spread without Stiles’ knowledge.  Word got around.  _Beacon Hills is alive_ , people whispered.  _But stay away.  The town offers hospitality to no one.  It will not harm you if you do not harm it so you can walk outside its borders as you travel, and if you’re lucky, it will take care of any threats for you while you are within its range, but it will not allow you entry, and you must always move on._ )

In the fifth year, Stiles started growing things.  He never bothered fixing most of the buildings, simply getting rid of them entirely and using the new house he magically raised in the Preserve where the Hales once lived to store all the medical supplies and books, food and weapons, clothes and bedding, necessities and creature comforts, things he could salvage from town that he thought might be useful.  He kept the hospital, scrubbed clean and restocked, if empty, and the police station remained standing, just in case.  Almost everything else was uprooted since most of the buildings were already pretty badly damaged to various degrees anyway.

He levelled Eichen House and filled its underground cells with cement.  He certainly wasn’t going to miss it.

Stiles himself moved into the Preserve.  The town reminded him too much of his life before the apocalypse, and he preferred the calm simplicity of the woods these days.  Televisions and computers no longer worked on their own, only with the aid of Stiles’ magic powering them, and Stiles tired more easily when he did that.  Nobody _else_ seemed to be able to get online so it wasn’t as if there was any news to catch up on anyway.

And then, because everything looked bare and empty and even the grass was withered and brown, and Stiles had nothing better to do, he dug up packets of seeds from the local collapsed garden center and started planting them everywhere.  The Nemeton offered him more from the forests, new grass and bushes and trees began to grow, and roses and chrysanthemums, tulips and dahlias, lilies and begonias, bloomed as the seasons passed.

He grew fruits and vegetables too.  A garden patch appeared in the Preserve, strawberries in the spring, carrots in the fall, other things in-between when Stiles wanted to change it up.  An apple grove stretched its branches in a clearing nearby.  Non-perishables were no longer the only things on the menu.  Animals – live ones – began moving back in when Stiles didn’t stop them.  His magic helped maintain everything, if only because even he couldn’t be everywhere at once, but also too, nature – without the undead trampling and poisoning everything – was actually perfectly capable of maintaining itself.

The sixth year swung around, and on a chilly winter morning, the Nemeton woke him up and sent him a picture of a huge, pitch-black, nine-tailed fox sitting on the northern border.

Stiles had – by that point – accepted the fact that he was probably not all that right in the head.  He killed his father.  He killed his mother a second time.  Hell, he murdered his way through the entire town.  Sure, they were almost all zombies, and if they weren’t zombies, they were the mindless monsters that roamed the halls of Eichen House before Stiles got them too, but still, he had more blood on his hands than he ever thought possible, even for him.  And the people he once thought were friends left him behind.  His closest companions consisted of a magical tree and a cat who was more tiger than house pet in temperament and had somehow grown to the size of an adult lynx.  On a good day, he talked to thin air while tending to his bird-of-paradise flowers.  On bad days, he couldn’t even find the energy to get out of bed, let alone talk to anyone even if there was anyone to talk to.

So he put it down to insanity when he told the Nemeton to let the nogitsune back in.

The fox found him within minutes, bounding up the slope leading into the Preserve and coming to a halt on the snow-covered front lawn, a few feet from the porch where Stiles was huddled in a quilt and sipping hot chocolate.

“So,” the nogitsune rumbled out, “You’re still here.”

It was a non-verbal day for Stiles so he said nothing in return, and after a moment of scrutiny, the nogitsune snorted and got to their feet again, turning towards the woods instead.

After that day, Stiles didn’t always see the fox.  But sometimes, he felt them watching him from the shadows as he plucked the apples from the trees.  Sometimes, he walked outside and found them sunning on the porch, tails sprawled out every which way.  And a year after the nogitsune moved in, Stiles was no longer allowed to stay in bed for longer than two days before the fox dragged him out of it and forced him to at least eat something.

Once, only once, he yelled at the nogitsune for sticking their unwelcome nose into his life, which was none of their business to begin with.  The fox only sat back on their heels and shot back coolly, “You were mine, for however short a time.  And then you set me free.  So your life is very much my ‘business’, Mieczysław.”

And then they shoved Stiles into the river, tossed soap in after him, and wouldn’t let him climb out again until he’d scrubbed himself down for the first time in three days.

Stiles probably could’ve driven the fox from town, nogitsune or not.  He and Beacon Hills were so entwined by that point that sometimes, it felt like they were one and the same.  But when the fox persisted, something in him gave way and allowed the nogitsune a place in Stiles’ life next to a cat and a tree and a town that protected him as much as he protected it ( _her?_ ), and his definition of home expanded to include one more, even if it did come in the form of a grumpy, sadistic old fox who once wore him like a cheap suit and killed a bunch of people with his hands.

Seven years go by, and one day, the nogitsune told him gruffly, “My name is Kuroi-khan.  Use it.”

Stiles did, but not often, simply because there was no need.  His companions were always close at hand in some way or another.

But also, seven years go by, and Beacon Hills was as close to a haven as possible, an oasis in a never-ending desert, a heaven in a hell, and Stiles was the one who built it from the ground up, from blood and ash and grief and despair, on a field of resting dead.

 

* * *

 

The end of the world is a quiet place.  Beacon Hills especially so, and everyone knows by now to leave the town alone.

Everyone, except one who ran and ran and ran some more when the walls came down and freedom was within his reach again, who tore his way through anyone and anything when they made the mistake of thinking him easy prey, who lost himself in his wolf for years and years until he found himself again.

And he hears the rumours, the whispers, the tales, the skeptical mutters and wistful murmurs of a ghost town in California with lush green flora and no zombies as far as the eye can see.  He hears about how sometimes, if you pass by at the right moment, you can smell apple pies of all things, fresh as if they just came straight out of the oven.  He hears how the whole place is guarded by tree roots and an invisible barrier that none are allowed to pass through.  And he hears the rarest story of all, how – on occasion, just for a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment – out of the corner of your eye when you’re travelling along the borders, borrowing the safety granted by the town, you might catch a glimpse of a boy, or perhaps a young man, with brown hair and pale skin and clean clothes, tending to a garden or walking beside a very large black fox.

He hears all of this, and he _knows_.

And seven years and nine months into the end of the world, Peter Hale shifts to four legs again, fur matted with blood and dirt, weak from exhaustion and hunger and no pack to depend on, but with a clearer mind than he’s had in almost a decade.

He turns west, towards the setting sun, towards the very place he fled from in the first place, and he runs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	55. Where Poppies Grow (Pt.2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter sees how much Beacon Hills has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, Post Season 5, Nogitsune, Nemeton, Preslash, Spark Stiles, Beacon Hills, Angst

 

Peter doesn’t run all the way back to Beacon Hills.  He can’t.  But he runs when he can, walks when he can’t, and he doesn’t stop until he catches sight of sprawling green earth and smells the near-forgotten scent of fresh air up ahead.  Even then, he doesn’t actually _stop_ until he slams headlong into the invisible barrier surrounding his old hometown.

It knocks him right off his feet.  It doesn’t help that he’s already woozy from lack of sleep and food and constantly fighting to survive for the past eight years.  Arguably longer.

He collapses, head spinning even as he tries to get his legs under him again, but he can’t seem to sort out forepaws and hindlegs and which is supposed to go where, and dark spots keep invading his eyesight.

A gust of wind rolls by, ruffling his fur.  The last thing he sees is pale bare feet and slender fingers reaching towards him.

He really hopes he isn’t about to be killed.  That would be kind of pathetic.  And that’s the last thought he has before darkness takes over.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes again, the first thing Peter smells is apple pie.  As if on cue, his stomach growls like it’s starved enough to eat itself.

He sits up, blankets pooling at his waist, and takes in his surroundings.  He’s indoors, in a sunlit room with all the windows open to let the breeze in, and he spots empty bookcases and a sofa at the other end.  Someone’s placed him on a mattress in the corner, which is a novelty in and of itself.  Most people just sleep on the ground these days, or on whatever flat surface they can find if they happen to come across an abandoned house or motel that might provide some cover for a little while.  And _those_ beds wouldn’t be half as nice as the one Peter’s lying on.

He’s turned human again sometime while he was unconscious, still naked but scrubbed free of dirt under the sheets, and the realization sends an uneasy chill through him that makes him want to shift back right away.  But he remembers where he was heading – remembers _getting there_ , even if only to the border – and when he takes a deep breath, clean and full and one that settles in his lungs without the usual smog of blood and rot, he also smells _Stiles_ , and that’s a scent he’d recognize anywhere.

Slowly, he pushes back the blankets and eases out of bed, planting his feet on the smooth floorboards before finally getting up.  He wavers a little, still feeling a little unsteady, but the dizzy spell passes, and he manages to limp his way over to an empty chair where a dark blue robe and a pair of boxers have been draped over the back.  He pulls them on, then, cautiously, he ventures out the nearest open doorway, mostly – he can admit – guided by that delicious hot-out-of-the-oven apple pie smell.

It doesn’t lead him to the kitchen but to the porch, through the open front door, and as soon as he steps outside, he realizes where he is.  It’s the Preserve, the very clearing where his family used to live, except…

Except Peter can hardly recognize it.  The front lawn is so green it almost makes his eyes hurt.  The grass is healthier by far than anything he’s seen in almost a decade.  There’s a garden patch on the far left with what looks to be ripe strawberries growing in it, and all around the perimeter of the house, flowers bloom like someone painted them there.  The colours are vivid and bright, and there are more types than Peter can name, all growing side by side.  In the distance, where the clearing melts into the woods, the trees are leafy and tall and nothing like the decayed mess that most of the wildlife outside of Beacon Hills has been reduced to.

And the _house_.

Peter descends the three steps and pads a few feet away, absently enjoying the soft soil and cool grass between his toes.  Then he turns and looks up, up, up, at the veritable mansion someone – Stiles, obviously – has somehow built.  Although, he supposes, it’s not exactly a mansion in the traditional sense, nothing so extravagant and gaudy, but it’s big, at least three stories, made of polished wood and stone, elegant without screaming money, and it actually looks like it fits right in in the middle of the woods, something even Peter’s family’s old house couldn’t quite pull off.

Vines have wound themselves around banisters and supports.  More flowers hang from the eaves of the roof in pots, splashes of colour against the beige of the house.  The porch spans the entire front of the house, and three apple pies – still steaming – are sitting on the railing.

It looks like something straight out of a fairy tale, made all the more so by the fact that this little slice of paradise simply shouldn’t exist in the world they live in now.

But then, it’s exactly those kinds of rumours that brought him running home.  That, and-

Sedate footsteps, almost too quiet to catch, has him turning around again, eyes on the treeline even before a familiar figure steps out into the open.

Stiles is… different.  Peter doesn’t even need to get a closer look to tell.  His scent is the same at its core but there are new layers to it too, _charged_ in a way that tickles at Peter’s nose like sparks of electricity, and threaded through with morning dew on grass and autumn leaves after a storm.

Stiles pauses for a few seconds, steps faltering before picking up again, heading in Peter’s direction.  He’s still as moon-pale as ever, and his hair is longer than Peter’s ever seen it, scruffy and falling around his ears like he hasn’t put a comb through it since forever and has barely even stopped to cut it every time it got too long.  He looks about the same height, but older, a few faint lines on his face where there wasn’t before, and he’s barefoot.  Oddly enough, he’s wearing what looks to be Japanese garb, a simple yukata that doesn’t seem to hamper his movements at all but still looks strange, especially since Peter is used to seeing plaid and flannel on him.

The biggest difference though is Stiles’ eyes.  Liquid gold rings each pupil, and it doesn’t go away or even flicker when he blinks.  They’re not quite the hard, bright yellow of a beta werewolf, which only makes them stand out more to Peter.

“Stiles,” He says when Stiles gets within a few feet.  Those otherworldly eyes meet his for a moment, set in a face that shows no apprehension or even dislike, just a neutral sort of serenity that doesn’t seem like it should exist in the aftermath of the apocalypse.  But then, this place doesn’t fit either, and here it is, existing.

Stiles doesn’t stop.  He’s carrying a basket full of red apples, which he carries with him into the house.  He reappears a minute later with plates and utensils, and soon, he has one of the pies divided into sixths.  He holds out one slice for Peter, who stares for a moment longer before moving back towards the porch, grimacing when he stumbles a little because apparently his leg is still fucked up from that run-in with a human and that damn bullet that wasn’t wolfsbane but still shattered bone, which is taking its sweet time healing.

He takes a seat on the steps and doesn’t hesitate wolfing down the pie after the first bite.  His stomach gurgles again, and it only takes him a few minutes to polish off his plate.  When he looks up, Stiles is sitting on the floor, back against the railing of the porch, and he’s slid the rest of the pie towards Peter, who forks the next piece and doesn’t actually stop eating until the entire pan is empty.  He gives the other two pies a mournful look but he figures he probably shouldn’t overeat if he doesn’t want to throw it all up later.

He glances at Stiles instead, who’s only just finishing his one and only slice.  He’s sitting in a shadowed corner, with only his feet in a patch of sun-dappled porch.  His yukata only reaches the top of his knees so Peter can see the muscle on him, but Stiles has always been more lean than bulky and that at least hasn’t changed.

“Stiles?”  He calls again, and Stiles turns to blink at him.  Peter isn’t used to saying it but- “Thank you.”

Stiles blinks again, shrugs, and climbs to his feet before wandering off indoors with his plate.  Peter watches him leave with a frown, wondering if he got it wrong and Stiles doesn’t want him here after all.  Well, he didn’t expect the young man to _want_ him here, but… Peter collapsed outside the wards, or whatever it is that’s protecting this place.  He knows Beacon Hills does not welcome strangers, and he also knows full well that he has very little to offer anyone, but he was planning on pleading his case anyway – he could go out and gather information for Stiles perhaps – anything in exchange for a safe place to live, even for just a little while, just long enough for him to catch his breath and regain some of his strength.  But he collapsed, and someone had to have taken him in for him to be _in_ , and so far, he hasn’t seen anyone around except Stiles.

“He doesn’t talk,” A rumbling voice from somewhere behind him says, and Peter almost pulls a muscle snapping his head around, only to come face to face with a _huge_ nine-tailed fox, ink-black all over and – even with all four feet planted on the front lawn, the thing is big enough to stand a full head taller than Peter, who’s sitting on the top step of the porch.

The fox somehow conveys an irritating amount of smug amusement as it takes in the way Peter’s claws are scraping against the plate in his hands, and his eyes are no doubt a lit-up blue.  There’s something malevolent in its violet gaze but it stays where it is, and it doesn’t smell of killing intent.  It doesn’t smell of anything actually; otherwise, Peter would’ve noticed it long before it snuck up on him.

He recalls the rumours about a boy with a fox though, and if Stiles is okay with this thing…

“Pardon?” Peter finally manages as politely as possible.  He’s the guest here after all.  Better play it safe, and who knows how much influence this creature has on Stiles.

The fox cocks its head.  It flashes its teeth when it speaks.  “Some days, Mieczysław doesn’t talk.  The only thing you can do is wait him out.”

And before Peter can decide whether or not it would be a good idea to ask for a clarification, the creature’s muscles bunch, and it leaps through the porch railing.  Not over.  Through.  The fox looked solid enough, right up until its outline blurs and melts into fluid shadows that phase right through the sturdy brown wood before coalescing into a fox once more and landing on the porch on silent feet.

It glances back over its shoulder, and Peter gets the feeling that it’s laughing at him.  He resists the urge to bare his fangs and instead states with certainty, “You’re the nogitsune that possessed Stiles.  And you haven’t killed him?”

The fox hums, circling the porch once before settling down regally like it owns the place.  “We’ve let bygones be bygones.”  Peter snorts.  The nogitsune levels an unblinking stare at him.  “The boy grew on me.  And if nothing else, there certainly isn’t anywhere better to be on this Inari-forsaken planet you humans destroyed.”

Peter actually has no idea why the dead started walking but he wouldn’t be surprised if the source of it originated right here in this town.  If anybody could fuck up the world beyond repair, it would be a Beacon Hills resident.

“He freed me,” The nogitsune continues unexpectedly.  “And I pay my debts.”  This time, when his teeth show in an unnerving grin, it’s both deliberate and distinctly unfriendly.  “After all, it took me over seventy years but I still repaid the debt I owed Noshiko Kin-Betrayer.”

Peter watches the fox warily.  Last he knew, the entire Yukimura family survived the nogitsune’s last rampage, so unless they were torn apart or turned by zombies in the eight years since, they should still be alive and kicking.  Although it surprises him that the nogitsune would be allowed to stay if it killed Kira’s mother.  Or maybe they chose to leave Beacon Hills?  Beacon Hills didn’t become a safe haven overnight after all, and a nine-hundred-year-old kitsune might think it wiser to take her husband and daughter somewhere else for a better chance of survival.  But does that mean the fox left to wrap up that piece of business after Stiles released it?  And then came _back?_   All for a debt?

That’s strangely honourable for a creature who had no qualms using Stiles’ body when it suited its purposes.

“And Stiles let you stay?”  He asks abruptly.

The nogitsune snorts and finally looks away, ears twitching lazily as if listening to something far away.  “Obviously.”

Peter ignores the note of mockery aimed his way and looks around again.  “Then who else is here?  Scott?  Lydia?  No doubt, if it was Stiles who voted to let me in, he must’ve had quite an argument on his hands.”

For a moment, the nogitsune doesn’t move.  Then it swings its head back around, and Peter wasn’t aware foxes could sneer until now.

“There is Mieczysław,” The fox growls.  “There is me, there is the Nemeton, Stelmaria, and the town.  But no one else.”

Peter stares.  “…They’re _dead?_ ”   _All of them?_

The fox gives him a flat look.  “They left.”

Peter… has no idea how to react.  Or, well, maybe he does.  Disbelief first, because he’s never respected a single decision Scott McCall has ever made in all the time Peter has known him, but he never thought their glorious True Alpha would actually leave his self-proclaimed best friend and brother behind when the world went to hell in a handbasket.  If nothing else, doesn’t the idiot need Stiles to bail him out when he messes up or doesn’t know what he’s doing?  Which is… pretty much all the time?  Not to mention sit through all that lovesick whining about his latest girlfriend too.  Peter has personally witnessed several such occasions, and Stiles is literally the only person who actually has the patience to sit through the entire thing instead of just leaving.  Even Isaac excused himself to the bathroom that one time Scott caught him and Stiles at the loft and started rambling about darling Allison’s dimples.  And never actually came back until Scott had to go home.  The only reason Peter heard it was because he was upstairs at the time.

Disgust follows at disbelief’s heels, because then again, since when has Scott ever truly appreciated everything Stiles does for him?  Even if he didn’t do that, since when has Scott ever even really cared about Stiles’ wellbeing?  He never even asked about Stiles’ injuries after Gerard tortured him, and he went right back to mooning after Allison the very next day even though Peter could _smell_ the blood and pain on that girl – neither of which was hers – for _weeks_ after she helped her granddad capture and torture kids her age.  Torture is methodical and full of intent, and scents like that linger like sins branded on flesh.  Peter didn’t pick up _Stiles’_ blood on her – otherwise he might actually have gone through with paying her a little midnight visit, if for no other reason than because Stiles deserved better than being at the mercy of a family as depraved as the Argents – but judging by the way that chit couldn’t look Stiles in the eye for months afterwards, and the way Stiles was always careful about keeping at least half a room between them for just as long, she knew, and Stiles knew she knew.

The only one who didn’t know was Scott, and sometimes, Peter had his doubts.  Either the boy was honestly just that stupid or he was willfully ignorant, maybe because he didn’t want to deal with the issue or because he simply didn’t care.

But even then, for McCall to leave Stiles behind to… what, escape on his own?  Die?  Did something happen while Peter was still locked up to tear those two even further apart?  What about Stiles’ father?  And Malia?

He doesn’t have time to think on it any further because Stiles chooses that moment to step back outside.  Peter says nothing this time, merely observing as the nogitsune slants a look over at Stiles and snaps without heat, “Did you only eat one slice of pie?  What did I just say yesterday?”

Peter has to bite back a smirk when Stiles flips it the bird.  The fox retaliates by thwapping a tail against Stiles’ hip.  “You’ll eat a bigger dinner.”  _Or else_ does not go unheard.

Stiles wrinkles his nose but doesn’t protest, making his way over to Peter instead.  He scoots past, descending to the bottom step before turning and dropping to his knees, and Peter flinches a little, startled when hands push the hem of his robe out of the way to reveal his right leg.  The flesh around the scabbed over bullet wound is still mottled purple but compared to the last time Peter looked at it, skin inflamed and feverishly hot with infection somehow, it’s already a lot better.  Stiles presses a light palm over the area, not quite touching, and a moment later, threads of gold light blossom under his hand.  Against his leg, they feel like feathers dipped in ice on a summer day, and as Peter watches, the bruising goes down until it’s barely visible.

The gold light disappears as Stiles retracts his hands.  He glances up, eerie-eyed and still, and for the first time, Peter finds himself wondering just how powerful Stiles has become.  He glances to the side when he hears the nogitsune make a displeased noise, but there’s no indication of what that he can see, so he turns back to Stiles instead.

“Thank you,” He says again, and means it in a way he hasn’t meant a lot of things in a long time.

Stiles shrugs and rises, turning away and picking up a basket of garden tools Peter overlooked earlier.  Then he disappears around the house, leaving Peter alone with the fox again.

“You’re my probation officer then?”  He offers carefully after a few seconds spent in tense silence.

The fox snorts and puts its head down on its paws.  “Please, I have infinitely better things to do than play watchdog.”  Its purple eyes fall to slits in a way that conveys all the sly disdain its entire species possesses.  “You’re free to wander to your heart’s content, werewolf.  There’s no trouble you can cause here that Mieczysław won’t know about.”

And with that slightly ominous warning, the nogitsune closes its eyes and for all intents and purposes promptly falls asleep, very visibly flaunting exactly how unconcerned he is about Peter’s threat level.

Peter idly wonders whether or not he’ll get killed if he dumps a bucket of water on the creature.  Probably.  But it might be worth it.

With a huff, he clambers to his feet, setting his empty plate aside.  His leg twinges a little as he walks but he’s no longer limping.  He hesitates a moment, torn between going after Stiles and looking around a little since it seems he’s allowed.

In the end, he chooses the latter, taking off towards the grassy stretch of road that used to be paved gravel, connecting Preserve to the town.  He’s still only dressed in boxers and a robe but the weather’s nice, and Peter’s never cared much about modesty anyway.

He’ll stay out of the woods for now since the nogitsune mentioned the Nemeton.  That tree – if it’s finally woken up for good – might not be quite as welcoming as Stiles has been.  But at the very least, he wants to see Beacon Hills, what has changed, what has not, and whether there really aren’t any zombies in this place anymore.

Because if there aren’t, then it’s very likely Stiles was the one to sweep them out, all on his own, and if _that’s_ true…

Well, Peter isn’t sure if that’s more impressive, terrifying, or just plain depressing.

 

* * *

 

Beacon Hills is… barely recognizable.  Some of the streets are still intact, cement scrubbed clean of blood and body parts, but most of the buildings – houses in particular but also coffee shops, clothing stores, supermarkets, even the schools – are gone, along with street signs and stoplights.  In their place, grass and trees and flowers have taken over, some parts mostly left to grow wild, others corralled and trimmed by human hands, all beautiful.

The police station still stands, as does the hospital.  Peter wanders in something of a daze along what used to be Heather Avenue and finds the library too, which makes him laugh, because of course Stiles would keep the library.  It’s half the size it used to be though, two floors instead of four, and upon closer examination, he finds – beneath the morning glories twining along the top of the building – the edges burnt black, like there was a fire.  The interior is filled with books, floor to ceiling and even stacked on tables in organized categories.  There are hundreds of shelves, more than Peter remembers, and he realizes Stiles must have cobbled new ones together to fit any extra books he managed to salvage.  Some of the pages are singed, and others are blackened along the spine, but there are also some that look brand-new, and after seeing prices on them, he realizes those must’ve been gathered from all the bookstores around town.

He moves on, stopping by the plot of land where the high school used to be, now only flat land and thick grass.  The sign’s still there though, hidden mostly by elegant tall hedges, and Peter knows without checking that Stiles must have saved the Hale Vault too.

There’s a lone goal post on the field, with ten lacrosse sticks tied to the netting, along with a full set of jerseys and a regular clipboard with a whistle hanging from it.  Peter stares for a moment and then has to turn away.  He doesn’t look at the display ( _memorial_ ) again as he leaves.

There aren’t any cars, he notices after a while, at least not until Peter’s exploration takes him to the downtown area.  He passes by the parking lot that he once dragged Stiles into all those years ago, and every available space has been filled with vehicles that vary in size and colour and brand.  The garage isn’t big enough to account for every car in Beacon Hills so it seems likely that Stiles got rid of the rest.

The shops and restaurants that once lined the streets are gone.  Apartment buildings and hotels too, but Peter recalls other cities he came across, and he remembers how much damage zombies managed to inflict on living spaces, holes in the walls and broken windows and ripped up furniture, all destroyed in the process of hunting down any living bodies attempting to hide in their homes.

He seeks out the plot of land where Eichen House once stood and finds nothing but shrubs, much to his relief.  Juniper, he identifies after studying one more closely, and that amuses him.  For banishing evil.

He walks the length and width of the town, letting his feet take him wherever they will, listening to the distant birdsong and the buzz of insects in the air.  His wolf is more relaxed here in this paradise that’s as natural as it is unnatural than it has been since even before the fire that killed his pack, and by the time he turns back towards the Preserve, he is sure of two things – there are no zombies in Beacon Hills, but there are no other humans either.

He takes a different route on the way back, as much as there can be a route anywhere when he isn’t following one of the remaining streets.  It takes him past a large grassy area overflowing with red flowers, and for a moment he doesn’t recognize it.  In the heart of town, there was still a handful of landmarks to give him a general idea of where he was or what used to be there.  But here, there are no buildings, only a single boulder – taller than Peter – smack in the middle of the field, and it takes him several minutes of wading ankle-deep through the flowers before circling over to the boulder to realize where he is.

Because the boulder isn’t a boulder after all.  It’s a tombstone.

The slab of granite stands at least twelve feet tall, and not only are both the wider sides covered in names, but the two narrower sides are as well.  Rows upon rows of them, tiny and grouped by family, carved by an amateur hand because the letters aren’t always perfectly neat, and some of the grooves are deeper while others are shallower, but all are readable, and Peter has no doubt Stiles included the names of even the smallest babies.

He finds _John Stilinski_ , next to _Claudia_.  _Alan Deaton_ beside his sister.  _Vernon Boyd IV_ amongst his family.  _Erica Reyes_ with hers.  _Victoria_ and _Allison Argent_ together.  There are no McCalls, no Martins, no Yukimuras.  There’s a few Dunbars but no _Liam_ , and a Tate, but no _Malia_.  There’s an entire family of Mahealanis, and Peter has a vague recollection of a boy in some of Stiles’ classes with the same surname.

And then he finds the H’s, the Hales, finds Talia and Joseph, Nathan and Charlotte, Alice, Matthew, Audrey, and Tyler.  Even Laura.  His mother and father are there too, although no one before that.  Traditionally, most Hales burned their dead, especially back when it was still a blood for blood world.  Werewolf bones make valuable ingredients in various rituals after all.

He crouches there for a long while, in the shadow cast by the stone.  He doesn’t move until the sun begins to set.

When he stands and looks around, he finally notices a few things he missed before, like the tree on the far right that used to grow in the very center of Beacon Hills Cemetery.  The wall with the metal gates that used to surround the place is gone, as are the roads that would’ve allowed cars to drive in and park.  All the headstones too are no longer there, only this new one Stiles must have erected.

He pauses, and then glances down at the red flowers.  It clicks in his mind, and he has to suppress the instinct to jump out of the flowers and perch on the base of the tombstone or something equally ridiculous.

These aren’t just any red flowers.  They’re all the _same_ flower.  They’re poppies.

He wants to leave right away, but after a moment, morbid curiosity has him stooping down and gently parting some of the flowers and grass to get at the soil.  Then he digs deeper, and the rich brown gives way to the unmistakeable grey of ash that smudge against his fingers when he rubs them together.

He takes a deep breath.  Then he covers it back up again, smooths the soil over, and then gets the hell out of there.

There’s a sick feeling in his stomach.  He isn’t disgusted – he’s seen far worse things than a pretty field watching over the dead.  But, sad, maybe.  He thinks of Stiles burning the dead and burying the ashes, forsaken in a blood-drenched town with everything out to kill him, and… yeah.  Sad describes the situation pretty well.  Sad describes the entire goddamn world pretty well these days.

Mostly though, Peter just feels numbingly tired when he thinks about it, so he tries his best not to.

 

* * *

 

By the time he gets back to the house, Peter’s dead on his feet.  Apparently, just because he feels better and doesn’t look like roadkill anymore doesn’t mean he’s _actually_ all better.  Also, he’s starving again, and he brightens when he spots the two apple pies still waiting on the porch.  And they’re still hot too.

The nogitsune isn’t there anymore so Peter grabs the fork and one of the pies and settles down on the steps again to eat it.  It’s as delicious as the first one, and he can’t help devouring the whole thing in minutes, even if it does give him a cramp.

He’s been eating nothing but leftovers in gutters and dumpsters for years, as revoltingly pathetic as that sounds.  As a wolf, his instincts told him to stay away from prey, especially at the beginning when a lot of small game were infected.  He didn’t have enough presence of mind to go into a shopping mall and raid the stores or houses to raid the fridge, so his diet – for a long time – was anything humans discarded or left behind, and considering the fact that food was scarce enough as it was, there wasn’t much of that either.

He glances at the last pie, wondering if he really will puke if he stuffs that down too.  Probably.  It’s one of those things that he thinks he wouldn’t mind, not anymore – it isn’t as if he has all that much dignity left – but it would be a waste, and he doesn’t want to seem ungrateful for everything Stiles has already given him.  Doesn’t want to give Stiles a reason to kick him out either.

So instead, he picks up the plate from earlier, along with the empty pie tray, and he turns for the door.

And then he freezes.

There, standing in the doorway, is a _huge_ cat.  In fact, it’s so big it might as well be a leopard.  Is it a leopard?  It could be.  The thing has a coat of snow-white fur marred only by a handful of black splotches here and there.  It’s definitely bigger than a mere housecat, although perhaps not quite as big as a full-grown snow leopard.  Its green eyes watch him the way a cat might look at a mouse when it’s not hungry – curious and debating whether or not it should play with it, but not outright hunting it down to eat.

And why are all these animals capable of sneaking up on Peter anyway?  Well, it’s only been a kitsune and a feline so far but that’s still already two too many by Peter’s count.

For a long moment, they simply stare at each other.  The cat(?)’s heartbeat is calm so it doesn’t seem likely to attack.  Peter runs an assessing over it once more, and something tugs at his memory.

 _Stelmaria_ , the nogitsune mentioned earlier, and the puzzle becomes a memory of an afternoon at the loft when Derek was still Alpha and everyone was there to make a half-hearted stab at figuring out what the Alpha Pack was up to.  Stiles came in with Scott, excitedly explaining the concept of daemons from His Dark Materials and babbling about how a snow leopard would be a cool daemon to have, except it was clear Scott had already tuned him out as per usual and was instead throwing puppy eyes at Allison as if looking that pitiful might change the hunter girl’s mind about getting back together, and Stiles soon trailed off looking sullen and embarrassed, and he didn’t bring up the topic again, at least not within Peter’s earshot.

“Stelmaria then?”  Peter muses, and the cat cocks her head, intelligent eyes sweeping over him again before she moves out of the doorway and prowls towards him instead.  Peter tenses a little but all Stelmaria does is brush past him, a low purr kickstarting in her chest in a way that sounds distinctly amused.

Peter watches her disappear into the woods.  He wonders if Stiles’ magic somehow made her that big, or if she really is a leopard who somehow found her way into Beacon Hills.  Either way though, she seems tame enough around people – she was even inside the house – so at the very least, she must listen to Stiles, and – for now at least – it doesn’t look like Stiles wants Peter mauled.

He continues on into the house, taking care to wipe off his feet on the mat before poking around until he finds the kitchen.  He rinses the tableware and dries his hands before leaving again.

He hesitates in the hallway.  It’s probably a little rude of him to just start looking around in someone else’s house, but at the same time, it seems as if he’s been given free access to the entire town, including this house.  He has no delusions about this place – it might’ve once been Hale territory but that was years ago, unclaimed land even after Derek came back and fumbled his way to Alpha before Scott took over responsibilities that the boy had no idea how to even begin fulfilling, or even the desire to.

And now it’s Stiles'.  It probably couldn’t be in better hands, honestly.  If nothing else, this territory is protected, and anyone who isn’t one of the restless dead or hasn’t been living under a rock for the past eight years has at the very least heard the rumours and knows to be wary.

 _That’s_ the mark of an Alpha doing things right.  Derek never managed it.  And Scott was even worse, no matter how highly he thought of the decisions he made.  Peter always kept his ear to the ground those days, so back then, he knew that when people heard _Beacon Hills_ and its _rare True Alpha_ , they _laughed_.

It was as infuriating as it was humiliating, but what could Peter do?  Well, he tried to challenge, and look where that got him.  But he supposes his mistake was trying to challenge alone.  He wonders, if he’d waited a little longer for Scott to mess up even more, if perhaps he would’ve been able to gain an ally or two.

But none of that matters anymore.  This is Stiles’ territory now, and Peter would be a fool to even think about challenging him.  Maybe he’ll be allowed to stay though.  He’s still not sure if Stiles will only let him linger until he’s healthy again but Peter’s not about to waste the opportunity he’s been given.  He’ll have to make himself useful, which will be difficult considering the fact that Stiles evidently hasn’t needed anybody’s help since the world ended, and even if he did, he already has a nogitsune and a Nemeton on his side, not to mention a cat that may or may not have magical abilities of her own.

But if there’s anything Peter is good at, it’s making himself invaluable, or at least making everyone else consider the benefits of keeping him around, even if they don’t necessarily _want_ him around.  Beacon Hills is the safest place to be right now, so he’ll do anything Stiles wants him to do to be able to stay here.

He has no desire to go back to eating trash and never being able to lower his guard for fear of being ambushed and having his sanity chipped away again piece by piece because it is so very easy to go feral when there’s nothing but blood and death and survival day after day after day.

But to avoid that, to have even a chance of staying long-term, he needs to know what he’s dealing with, what Stiles already has at his disposal, what he _doesn’t_ have and might need.

He heads for the nearest staircase.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More Peter/Stiles interaction next time.**  
> 
> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	56. Where Poppies Grow (Pt.3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter sees more of both Beacon Hills and Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Post-Apocalypse, Zombie Apocalypse, Zombies, Post Season 5, Nogitsune, Nemeton, Preslash, Spark Stiles, Beacon Hills, Angst

 

Peter is nosing around in a room filled with books that must have come from Deaton’s collection when he feels eyes on him.  He pauses, then turns, recognizing Stiles’ scent even if he didn’t hear anyone coming upstairs.  For a moment, Peter almost thinks he can’t even hear a heartbeat, but it’s there when he deliberately listens for it, only – strangely enough – it sounds like it blends right into the background, merging with the existing noises around them like the wind through the trees and the splash of fish in the pond outside.

He gives himself a mental shake and focuses on Stiles, who blinks gold eyes at him from the doorway before wandering inside and coming to a halt a foot away from Peter.  Peter glances at the section he was perusing, all on Nemeton lore.  “…I was curious about the kinds of books you’d stored up here.”

Stiles still doesn’t speak but he watches Peter’s lips like he needs to see each word given breath in order to hear them.  He doesn’t look away until Peter finishes, and even then, he only nods like that’s a perfectly acceptable response for poking around in someone else’s den.  But it means Peter’s allowed, and he’s hardly about to question Stiles’ leniency.

There are – as he discovered over the past hour or so – all sorts of things stashed in this house.  He hasn’t even seen any bedrooms yet; everything’s just been set aside for storage.  The first room Peter came across – and consequently directly across from a bathroom too – held shelves of shampoo, body wash, soap, toothpaste and toothbrushes, even floss, and more toilet paper than he thought possible.

He picked a second room and found laptops, phones, chargers, music players, radios, and so on and so forth.  None of it worked of course – technology took a dive a long time ago as far as Peter’s aware – but he suspects Stiles has probably figured out a way to get them up and running.

Other rooms contain things that are just as random.  One is filled with lego, boxes of them in one corner while everything from castles to arctic base camps to jungles stood on display.  Another is stocked with DVDs, yet another with music, including a bunch of vinyl records complete with gramophone, and yet another with art equipment all over the place, from blank canvases to paintbrushes to actual easels.

The most interesting room so far in Peter’s opinion was the one filled with rows of jars containing flowers and roots, powders and liquids, some  he identified as strains of wolfsbane while others he couldn’t identify at all, some that glowed in their containers, others that floated.

He wonders if Stiles would be willing to teach him what each of them did and maybe even how to make them if he asks.  Later, of course.  Much later.

He stills when Stiles reaches out to pluck at his sleeve, only to pause when their knuckles accidentally knock together in the process.  Stiles pulls up short from where he was turning for the door, staring at their hands with the most peculiar expression on his face.

Surely, Peter thinks, Stiles has touched him before since he got here?  At the very least, someone had given Peter a bath, and the nogitsune didn’t have the thumbs for it.  So did Stiles react like this every time?  A strange mix of surprise and something almost like pain, wrapped up in a lost sort of bewilderment as if the young man isn’t sure whether he wants more physical contact or to never touch Peter ever again.

The moment passes, Stiles tucks his hands into his sleeves and continues towards the door, and Peter moves to follow.

Stiles takes him down a flight of stairs – not the one he came up from – and into a study at the end of one hall.  This room, unlike the others he’s seen, looks like it actually sees regular activity.  There are books and notes strewn all over the place, opened across the single desk in the room and even spread out along the floor.  There are several beanbag chairs around the room, a mattress in the corner, blankets mussed, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that cover an entire wall, every inch of it crammed full.

Stiles shuffles over to one shelf, fingers skimming over the spines of what looks to be notebooks before pulling out one near the end.  He turns back to Peter and holds it out with an air of expectancy.

Peter accepts it with a lingering glance at Stiles before looking down at the leather-bound notebook.  It isn’t titled aside from a _1_ marked on one corner, but when he flips it open, there’s a rough sketch of a tree – the Nemeton – and when he scans the rest, he recognizes Stiles’ handwriting scribbled everywhere, not always in straight lines, and some paragraphs are accompanied by more pictures.  Here and there, words are crossed out, and hasty postscripts have been added on more than one page.  The whole notebook is about a finger thick, and it’s clear Stiles has put a lot of work into it.

When Peter looks up again, Stiles is still staring at him.

“I can read this?”  Peter asks, because knowledge of Nemetons has never been widespread, even amongst supernatural kind, and to be given free access to firsthand research like this…

Stiles nods and even smiles a bit.  It pulls stiffly at his face, like he hasn’t made such an expression in a long time.

Peter glances down once more before nodding back.  _I don’t have anything to pay you with_ burns at the back of his throat but he swallows it down.  He almost wants to refuse but new knowledge is always good, especially when it’s as useful as this.  So, he’ll find something.  Something to give back, to make them… well, not even, that margin’s moving further and further ahead by the _hour_ , but at least close the gap a little.

If nothing else, that scouting idea is still on the table.  From what Peter’s seen so far, Stiles reigns in Beacon Hills but it’s a very isolated place.  As loath as Peter is to ever step foot outside these borders again, he’ll do it if Stiles wants information about any surrounding dangers that are too far away for even the Nemeton to pick up but still close enough that it might become a threat.

Stiles seems satisfied with his reaction because he nods again, then gestures for Peter to follow as he heads back to the door.  This time, they trek down another flight of stairs before navigating a couple more hallways – Peter’s beginning to get an inkling that this place is a _lot_ bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside, and the outside already looks pretty big – before they reach their next destination.

It’s another room, unlocked as well, although Peter supposes there’s no point locking anything around here – it isn’t as if Stiles has to worry about thieves.  The door swings open, and Peter walks in after Stiles, only to get smacked in the face with the stale, dusty, but also unmistakeable scent of his old belongings.

It freezes him in his tracks.  Slowly, he looks around.  It’s more bedroom than storage this time, except there’s no bed.  There’s a desk though, with a familiar-looking laptop on top, the black of it faded and chipped along one edge.  There’s a bookshelf too, half-filled, and even from this distance, he can make out the cracked, blackened spines of the texts he managed to salvage from the remains of the Hale house, squirreling them away in his apartment like they might come close to replacing all the things he’d lost in the fire.

Without conscious thought, his feet carry him over to the shelf.  It’s all here, every last book he managed to save, Stiles must have saved in turn when he was cleaning out the town.  Trailing fingers along the spines, Peter pauses when he gets to the end of one row, then numbly reaches into the small wicker basket placed there and withdraws the meagre stack of family photographs he’d likewise dug up after he came back from the dead.  Most of them aren’t even whole, either scratched from debris or charred from the fire, some brittle enough that they feel like they might crumble in his hands if he handles them too roughly.  But they’re here, not entirely destroyed, the way Peter thought all his belongings would be even before the apocalypse, when he was thrown into Eichen House.  If nothing else, he figured – once they found out where he lived – McCall and his merry band of idiots, probably encouraged by Deaton and even Derek, would’ve helped themselves.

In something of a daze, he puts the picture back and leaves the notebook from earlier on the shelf as well before wandering over to the closet next, pulling open the sliding door almost tentatively.  The interior smells a bit musty, and everything probably needs a good wash, but the contents are entirely recognizable.  Those are his shirts, v-necks and cardigans and even the pathetically cheap dress shirts he bought after he was robbed and had to step up his plans to get a job because he’d known Derek would’ve seen him grovel first before ever lending him so much as a penny, and even then it would’ve been a tossup.  Scott and the others weren’t worth mentioning.

He never got around to that of course, after finding out Kate was still alive and trying to manipulate her in a way that wouldn’t end with all of them killed at the hands of the Berserkers.  And Peter himself was too ambitious, too _desperate_ , and he’d gone after Scott without thinking it through.

He’d paid for that and then some.  There are days when he feels like he’s been paying for one thing or another his entire life.  Days when he looks back at how the years have treated him, how his family treated him, and wonders if all the suffering and all the hate was the price the universe decided he had to pay for daring to be born at all.

He takes a step into the closet, then another, hands hovering all the neatly folded clothes.  Jeans and sweats are piled on one shelf, his two jackets have been hung up, his three pairs of socks are in a drawer, and his shoes are tucked neatly away in a rack at the bottom.  And at the very back…

He recognizes the cardboard box of course.  The box is nothing special, but when he stoops down to open it, everything he placed inside is still there – the basketball, signed with the names of his entire high school team after he led them to the championships for the third and final time, with the orange rubber turned black and peeling all on one side; a stuffed animal, a wolf with one of its ears missing but sewn shut so the stuffing wouldn’t keep falling out, that used to belong to Cora; a useless blue crystal bauble with a crack in it, the last of a rainbow-coloured set that Peter bought for Talia one Christmas because he’d been feeling sentimental and she loved that sort of thing; and a copy of Homer’s Iliad that had somehow managed to survive the fire without so much as a singed page.

He sits back on his heels, a little numb and a lot tired, the way he’s always felt after looking at these stupid little trinkets that aren’t worth anything in the end.  He usually felt angry too, and that was typically when he went to the loft and hung around a bit until his nephew’s short temper got the better of him again – it never took much – and hammered his rage into his uncle until either his fists were bloody or Peter retreated with broken bones and internal bleeding.  It worked for them too – Derek got an outlet and wouldn’t use Stiles’ sarcasm as an excuse to smack the boy around, and Peter got a distraction from the overwhelming desire to rip his nephew’s throat out, if only because he was too exhausted to try.

It probably wasn’t very healthy though.

The anger’s faded with time, he finds, although the bitterness is still there, and it probably always will be when he thinks of Derek.  He shuts the box and pushes it back into its corner before ducking out of the closet.

Stiles is still waiting for him.  He’s opened the curtains and the window to let a fresh breeze in, and it’s wonderful in a way Peter didn’t think he’d ever smell again, not with the rest of the world in a perpetual state of rot and deterioration.

He hesitates when Stiles turns to him, an expectant air in the tilt of his head.  Peter feels like he should probably thank him again, but at the same time, he’s been doing nothing but since he woke up here, and words don’t seem enough anymore.

He’s saved by his own stomach, which gurgles embarrassingly, asking for more food.  Stiles actually looks amused as he leads them out of the room and back to the kitchen.  Peter makes a point of memorizing the way between the main living area and his bedroom.  At least he thinks it’ll be his bedroom.  If he’s allowed to stay.

He doesn’t want to let his thoughts spiral down that path again so he takes a seat at the table and concentrates on Stiles as the younger man clatters around the kitchen, taking out pots and pans to make dinner.

Stiles puts together a pasta with shredded chicken and a salad on the side.  It smells delicious even before it’s finished, and Peter doesn’t have to be asked to set the table.  It’s been a very long time – longer even than the world has gone to hell – since he last ate a home-cooked meal.

Stiles takes a seat beside him before digging in without fanfare, and Peter takes that as his cue to start eating too.  Again, he has to force himself not to wolf it down – he hasn’t completely forgotten his table manners, damn it, even if he hasn’t put them to use much, or at all, in the past near-decade – but his stomach doesn’t exactly want to cooperate.  It rebels after a mere few mouthfuls, but at the same time, Peter still feels hungry.

Fingers appear in his line of sight and brush over the back of his hand.  Peter almost fumbles his fork, and then he goes still when a cool rushing feeling washes through him, as if he’s drunk a glass of ice water on a hot day.  The spasms in his stomach ease a little, and Stiles retracts his hand.

Peter takes a breath, then nods his thanks, to which Stiles hums back quietly before returning to his dinner.  It’s the first sound Peter’s heard from him, and it’s still not words, but Peter takes it as a good sign.  Stiles without a voice is a bit jarring, although it would be foolish to think anyone could stay the same after all these years.

Half an hour later, Peter insists on doing the washing-up.  This time, Stiles watches him from the table, and Peter finds he doesn’t mind.  Usually someone watching him makes him want to attack or flee, mostly because anyone watching him during his directionless trek across the country always meant him some form of harm.

But his wolf is already associating Stiles’ scent with safety, and Peter likes having the Spark in his peripheral.  Everything he even remotely still cares about is in this room, within reach, and there’s no threat nearby that Peter has to fight off or struggle with to keep what’s his.

Even if Stiles isn’t really his.  But he’s _something_ to Peter – saviour, potential companion, someone he remembers fondly from before – and he has little enough these days to not hoard what he does have when he can.

They retire to the room with the mattress Peter woke up on.  Or rather, Stiles retires there and Peter follows.  A second look tells him that it’s probably the main living room, albeit a slightly sparse one.  There’s a fireplace he missed earlier, positioned opposite the couch, the grate empty, and a coffee table in-between with several books stacked on it.  Stiles makes a beeline over there, picks up the one on top, and then settles down on one end of the couch.

Peter lingers in the doorway before doing the same.  He pauses with a hand on the stack, glancing furtively at Stiles, but the younger man pays him no mind so Peter palms the next book in the pile – _A Game of Thrones_ – before folding himself onto the opposite end of the sofa, adjusting his robe to fall more comfortably over his knees.

It’s how they spend the next three hours.  Peter relaxes even further, and he actually ends up dozing off in short spells more often than reading anything.  The last time he stirs and wakes, the sun has completely set, and he slits open his eyes to find warm yellow balls of light floating in various parts of the room, casting wavering shadows across the walls.

He lifts his head from the armrest and his gaze promptly lands on the giant fox sprawled on the rug in front of the unlit fireplace.  Like a dog.

The nogitsune cracks open one eye and glares like it knows what Peter is thinking.  Peter is fairly certain kitsune cannot in fact read minds so he goes right ahead and keeps thinking about the dog comparison.  One of those dumb slobbery things that gets bullied by cats all the time, perhaps.  The nogitsune huffs but only shuts its eyes again, clearly choosing to ignore him instead.

 _Hah_.

Peter gets an elbow under himself and pushes up into a straighter sitting position.  He looks around and finds himself alone on the couch, Stiles nowhere to be seen.  He gets to his feet, leaving the book on the coffee table and subtly but carefully giving the nogitsune as wide a berth as possible before taking off in the direction of the nearest staircase.  He has to concentrate but eventually he picks up the faint steady thump of Stiles’ heartbeat, and that’s what he follows.

He finds Stiles in a room two down for the first bathroom he came across earlier.  He blinks, bewildered, when he sees what Stiles seems to be examining – underwear, still in their plastic packaging, boxers in his left hand, briefs in his right.

“…Stiles?”

He gets both packages stuck under his nose, and bemused, he picks the boxers after a moment of consideration.  He’s worn both before (and neither), depending on the occasion and what kind of pants he’s wearing at the time, so it doesn’t really matter to him.

Now that he’s looking, he notices shelves of underclothes and pajamas along two of the walls, while the other is stacked with towels of all shapes, colours, and sizes.  Stiles tosses the briefs back onto a shelf, waves a hand at their surroundings, then wanders out of the room just like that.

Well.  Peter supposes this is Stiles’ way of telling him to grab a shower and go to bed.  Which sounds like an excellent idea.  His hunger’s finally abated, for now, but exhaustion’s still tugging persistently at him.

So he chooses a set of dark blue towels and some soft-looking sleep pants before making his way to the nearest bathroom.

There’s a tub even.  And Stiles didn’t say he couldn’t, so just this once, Peter thinks he’ll indulge in a good long soak.  You don’t realize how much you would miss running water until you don’t have it anymore.

 

* * *

 

When he’s finished, fingers still pruned but his whole body feeling loose and sleepily content, he makes his way back to the living room.  The mattress is still there, and he wouldn’t quite be able to say why but he feels more comfortable spending the night down here than up in the room with his possessions.  Besides, there isn’t a bed there yet.

He drapes his robe and a spare shirt over the armchair, and then he pauses when he realizes Stiles is back on the couch, sprawled across its length and fast asleep.  He’s changed out of that yukata of his and into a pair of sweats and an oversized t-shirt, and he looks… not younger exactly but… more fragile perhaps, in his sleep.

The fox is still there too, on the rug, and it hasn’t even deigned to open its eyes upon Peter’s return.

It should make his instincts go haywire but – while wary – Peter doesn’t feel the need to get as far away as possible from the nogitsune.  For all that he knows it’s dangerous and even feels like a threat in the short time they’ve interacted, it doesn’t quite feel like a threat _to Peter_ , and that apparently makes a world of difference.

So instead, he focuses on fluffing up his pillow and shaking out the blankets.  He goes to fetch himself a glass of water and grabs _A Game of Thrones_ again before finally crawling into bed.

He likes that the mattress is right up against a solid surface, wall at his back and windows directly to his left, letting the moonlight pour in.

He gets through three chapters before the crooning night breeze lulls him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes in the morning with the morning sunlight on his face, and he’s a wolf again.  That’s not so surprising.  He’s spent the majority of the past ten years either feral or close to it, the wolf was all he knew in those days, and by the time his human side started regaining some awareness not even a year ago, it was still just safer to go to sleep as an animal and likewise wake up as one.

But he remembers where he is as he yawns and stretches so he shifts back to naked skin and opposable thumbs before rolling out of bed.  Stiles is gone, as is the nogitsune.  The floorboards are sun-warm under his feet, and he can smell eggs and hash browns wafting from the direction of the kitchen.

He pulls on the shirt he left on the armchair last night before making his way to the kitchen, arriving just as Stiles is plating breakfast at the countertop, with a steaming mug of tea beside each plate.  He glances up when Peter comes in, and while his eyes are still that otherworldly gold, he also appraises Peter for a long unblinking moment before his mouth twitches into a slightly awkward smile.

“Peter,” he says, “Good morning.”

Peter’s eyes widen.  _Stiles’ voice has gotten deeper_ , is the first thing he thinks, rather inanely because of course it’s gotten deeper, he’s a man grown now.

“Good morning,” He manages belatedly after realizing he’s staring like an idiot.  He’s a little more cautious as he moves into the room but Stiles doesn’t treat him any differently, most of his attention still on the breakfast.  The forks and knives haven’t been laid out yet so Peter goes to do that.  It only takes seconds before they’re both seated comfortably at the counter side by side.

“No sausages,” Stiles tells him in that same slightly husky voice.  “Or bacon.  No pigs in Beacon Hills.  Kuroi brought me chickens a while back though so we get eggs.”

Peter has to take a moment as his brain tries and fails to imagine the nogitsune herding chickens like some kind of sheepdog.  He glances at Stiles, who grins a bit like he knows what Peter’s thinking.

“I dunno where he found them,” Stiles says. “He just showed up one day with four chickens in this shadow cage he made.  Two roosters and two hens.  There are sixteen domesticated ones in total now.  I can show you later?”

Peter nods without hesitation.  That implies Stiles wants to spend at least part of the day with him, right?  Which is another day Peter gets to stay.

He takes a few more bites of food before catching Stiles’ eye again and offering carefully, “I meant to say earlier – thank you for… taking me in.  I am aware that you didn’t have to.”

_So why did you?  Why me and no one else?_

He bites back those last two questions, and quite a few others besides.

Stiles frowns at him.  “I know.  You said.  Yesterday.”

Peter nods haltingly.  “Yes.  But…” He was pretty vague about it, if he’s honest.  And, well, he knows Stiles still understood him even if he was non-verbal, but Peter can’t quite shake the feeling that some part of the younger man was just… missing yesterday.  Or at least somewhere in his mind, too far away to be reached.  Today though, they’ve barely shared a handful of sentences over the past five minutes but Stiles already feels more _present_ to Peter than he ever did at any point yesterday.

Stiles just shrugs, not seeming to care that Peter’s words have deserted him.  “Okay.  You’re welcome.  I just felt like it.”

And that’s the extent of their breakfast conversation.  The ensuing silence isn’t an entirely comfortable one but Peter doesn’t feel too restless either, and he’s occupied with reviewing every syllable and intonation of everything Stiles said.

If Stiles _doesn’t_ feel like it anymore, would he boot Peter out?

Peter tries not to think too much about that.

On a less worrying but more curious note, Stiles talks in choppier sentences now.  Or maybe it’s just the early hour.  From what Peter can remember, Stiles was never the best with people, talking too much, knowing too much, and annoying to those who couldn’t keep up with his wit and sarcasm.  On the surface, it always seemed as if Stiles’ problem was that he just didn’t have a brain-to-mouth filter, but Peter always wondered if that was done on purpose, to hide the things that truly mattered.  Or perhaps he simply gave up trying to get people to hear him.  God knows those around him tended to ignore him more often than not.  Peter didn’t know why, still doesn’t.  Ninety percent of the time, the supernatural idiots of Beacon Hills only survived the latest threat because Stiles was there to do the necessary research for them.

Peter glances up from his musings when Stiles rises to rinse his empty plate in the sink.  He polishes off the last of his own share and hands the tableware over when Stiles turns to him and holds out an expectant hand, leaving Peter with his tea.

“I have stuff to do,” Stiles announces once he’s drying his hands.  “I’ll be back down later if you still want to see the chickens.  You can do whatever you want.”

And then he strides off, moving deeper into the house and leaving Peter blinking after him.

Well.  Alright.

The front door is open so he ducks outside and sits on the steps, watching the woods stir with life as he drinks his tea.  It’s nice to not have to be on his guard every second of every day, and even his stomach seems to have settled a little today, no longer ravenously hungry every few hours.

Once he’s finished his tea, he heads upstairs to use the bathroom, going through a morning routine that feels almost foreign for him.  He lingers in front of the mirror when he realizes his hair’s grown longer, curling a little and reminding him of his stint in the hospital when his dearly departed nurse was in charge of cutting it.

It doesn’t take him too long to find a pair of scissors.  He’s no barber but a trim isn’t beyond him, and – after a moment of deliberation – he hunts down a razor as well and gives himself a proper shave.

He looks almost like his old self by the time he finishes.  Older, he thinks as he traces some of the new lines in the face of his reflection, and more hardened in ways he didn’t think would be possible after six years in a coma and being burned alive a second time.

But he’s still here, still breathing.  He’s outlived more people than he cares to count.

(He wonders, sometimes, if his knack for surviving anything and everything thrown at him means he’s just that talented or if he has some kind of masochistic streak in him.

He wonders, sometimes, if it wouldn’t be easier to stop, let go, give up.

But he doesn’t know if he could even if he wanted to.  He’s never been all that good at giving up on anything.  He’ll succeed or die trying – and if he dies trying, he’ll come back just to try again.  Maybe it’s foolish, but to him, _giving up_ has always been for lesser men, and Peter is a lot of things, but _lesser_ has never been one of them, no matter what his sister thought.)

The rest of the morning is spent carrying his clothes from the bedroom he’s been – more or less – given to the laundry room he found several hallways away.  Might as well get the washing done first.  He doesn’t know exactly how the machines work because they’re not plugged into anything as far as he can see, but they _do_ work and that’s all that matters.  Magic is a wonderful thing, and he lives with a powerhouse now.

His room has a small balcony that looks out over the front of the house, high enough too that he’s level with the top of the trees at the edge of the property.  He leaves the door open to air out the room, and he rigs up a line to hang the laundry that can’t go in the dryer.

Once all that’s done, Peter retrieves the notebook on the Nemeton and heads outside.  The porch is thankfully devoid of both fox and cat so Peter takes a seat on the front steps again, makes himself comfortable, and begins soaking in everything Stiles has learned about Beacon Hills’ oldest tree.

 

* * *

 

Later, after a simple but filling lunch consisting of assorted sandwiches, Stiles takes him through the woods to a large field, trees cleared away and replaced with pens and stables and acres upon acres of gently sloping grasslands.  The promised chickens are there, along with a handful of cows and a dozen beautiful horses.  Peter feels a tingle of magic pass over him when he steps onto the makeshift farm, and he guesses that – along with containing more space than should be possible in this plot of land – there are wards up to prevent the animals from leaving, as well as to keep any predators out.

“I kill a chicken or two sometimes for food,” Stiles confesses, and he actually sounds apologetic about it.  “But I don’t keep those here.  The ones here are for eggs only.  The wild ones are…” He flaps a hand towards the property line.  “There are a lot of them.  I’ve lost count.”

Then he picks up a passing chicken that still looks more chick than hen and dumps her into Peter’s arms.  “This is Lyla.”

Peter’s left with an armful of feathers and inquisitive clucking as Stiles wanders off in the direction of two grazing horses.  Peter stares at the chicken for a moment and feels a vague urge to go wolf and eat it, but Stiles probably wouldn’t like that so he sighs and drops the thing off beside a couple other hens instead.

The whole place, as he soon finds out, is also run on magic.  Food and water for each species are switched out with invisible hands, and stalls and pens are mucked out the same way, although it’s clear by how all the animals greet him that Stiles still makes regular rounds here.

Peter follows, keeping a wary eye on one of the cows that always seems to be staring at him every time he looks over at it.  A palomino mare with a beautiful white-gold mane and tail brushes up against his right and spends the rest of the visit following him around.

“You can take her out riding,” Stiles offers.  “She can hold your weight.  But bareback.  Most of them aren’t used to saddles anymore, and I don’t think Visenya’s ever even worn one.  She’s young enough that she would’ve just been a foal when the world ended.  She isn’t even shod.”

Peter listens and nods and rests a tentative palm against Visenya’s warm neck.  The mare blinks calmly at him and doesn’t seem at all afraid.

He gets introduced to the other horses, the cows and chickens too.  Every one of them has a name, down to the single black newborn colt, Dullahan, the first one born since these horses stumbled into Beacon Hills in groups of twos and threes.

Peter doesn’t go riding that day, but he does run a brush and comb through Visenya’s mane and coat respectively when Stiles tells him it’s grooming day and shows him what to do.  He helps with a few of the other horses too once he gets the hang of it with Visenya, who stands incredibly patient with him while Peter figures out the whole process.

When they take their leave at sunset, Visenya follows him to the property line and watches him leave.  It almost makes Peter feel guilty, but not enough to stick around, if only because that cow – Maurice – is _still_ staring.

“They seem… very aware,” Peter remarks.

Stiles nods in agreement, “Yes,” and doesn’t say anything else so Peter doesn’t press.

Peter makes dinner that night, and it pleases something in him to see Stiles hum contentedly over the various dishes Peter managed to put together.  They’re only interrupted once by Stelmaria who returns from wherever she’s been and settles at the foot of the mattress in the living room, much to Peter’s apprehensive confusion.  He’s pretty sure the mattress doesn’t belong to Stelmaria, if only because it doesn’t smell like her, but she’s a hulking mass along the width of one end, and Peter doesn’t want to get his hand bitten off if he tries to shove her off.

Stiles goes to sleep on the couch again that night, and after a minute of indecision, Peter also slides onto his makeshift bed.  At least the mattress is long enough for him to stretch out and still leave a foot of space between himself and the cat.

He almost jumps out of his skin when a tail thwaps his right knee, but when he looks, he finds Stelmaria staring mockingly at him, eyes shining in the dark, and Peter’s just stubborn enough to refuse to move first.

He falls asleep like that, blanket pulled up around his shoulders, a cat’s tail over his leg, and the faint blended drums of sleeping heartbeats in his ears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


	57. Magical Origami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles makes magical origami to make Peter feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why? I dunno. I felt like writing it.

 

It starts on a regular summer day. To be fair, it’s a hotter than usual one, dry and relentless, and every breath feels like too much work. Fans barely stir the air, and even air-conditioners don’t seem to help much. There’s been no rain for three weeks, and just last weekend, a fire razed half the trees a mile outside Beacon Hills to the ground before the fire department managed to put it out.

It’s gotten to the point where the pack doesn’t have enough to energy to do anything, much less keep up with patrols, and Lydia, in a fit of generosity or just plain pity, invites everyone over to her private saltwater pool for the day. Well, almost everyone.

“Except Peter,” She tosses over her shoulder, a smile on her face that curls with a subtly nasty edge because she can hold a grudge forever. “I doubt splashing around with a bunch of teenagers is your scene so there’s no need for you to come. Besides, we don’t want anyone accused of sexual harassment, right?”

Scott makes a face that’s as disgusted as it is relieved they won’t have to put up with Peter while the others snicker, and even Derek smirks a bit, probably at the thought of his uncle getting arrested for something like that. They trek out of the loft, already chattering eagerly about the pool, and it’s probably a good thing none of them look back, if only because in that moment, Peter’s eyes practically _burn_ with something that’s half-feral, half-murderous intent.

The oldest werewolf in their midst has been getting more and more agitated with each passing day, especially after last week when the man stormed over to the loft, muttering about his apartment building’s entire air-conditioning system breaking down and the landlord refusing to do anything about it before the latest heat wave is over. His wit cuts deeper and sharper the hotter it gets, and if the others would just _think_ , they’d understand why. Derek may carry around enough guilt about the Hale Fire to fill the Grand Canyon but he wasn’t ever actually caught in the house during the incident.

Peter _was_ , and he spent the next six years paying for Derek’s mistake.

At the moment, the werewolf is perched in his usual seat on the stairs, and he makes no move to follow the others out. His fingers dig white-knuckled into his thighs, his jaw is a tight, unyielding line on his face, and there’s an almost-twitch above his right eye. There’s an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, and his eyes are fever-bright. He honestly looks about three seconds away from going on another murder spree.

Stiles lingers in the doorway, thinking longingly of diving into cold water and preferably staying under until he prunes. But he looks back at how still Peter is sitting, shirt drenched in sweat like the rest of them but breathing so evenly that Stiles would put money down on him doing counting exercises in his head, like they might distract him from how hot it is.

Outside, Stiles can hear the cars starting up and leaving one by one. None of them seem to have noticed that Stiles hasn’t followed them.

Stiles heaves a sigh. Then he shuts the loft door and sprawls out on the ground instead, and he’s never been more grateful for the cement floor as he is now. He digs into his bag, plucking out a water bottle that’s lukewarm at best and sets that aside for later before withdrawing a few pieces of square paper instead.

He’s always liked folding origami. It kept his hands busy when his fingers felt restless, which - with his ADHD - was pretty much all the time. It was either this or Cat’s Cradle, and Stiles has always preferred the endless creations he can make with only a piece of paper and practice. He used to make them with his mom, it was their thing, and then he made them _for_ his mom when her hands grew too clumsy. He folded and folded, doggedly, determinedly-

( _A thousand cranes for a wish._ )

-and even after her illness took a turn for the worst and she began ripping up anything Stiles gave her, Stiles kept folding, doggedly, determinedly, hoping to see her smile at him again the way she used to when he gave them to her.

( _A wish that never came true._ )

After his mom died, he tried folding them for his dad. When his dad was drunk and saw the origami, he crushed them in a fist and threw them in the garbage. When his dad wasn’t drunk and saw the origami, he said nothing and nothing and nothing, and then he finally asked Stiles not to make anymore.

Stiles _did_ make more, but he never showed them to his dad ever again.

He had less time for it when the supernatural invaded his life and all his time was spent running around trying to keep everyone alive, but he took it up again, made time for it again, after the nogitsune was ripped out of him and something empty and cold was left in its place.

Origami was a soothing distraction, and Stiles found he preferred its company to his friends’, preferred each precise fold and crease to the way their gazes still skittered away from him or watched him warily, as if he _chose_ to go on a killing rampage and he might turn on all of them again.

He wasn’t even really thinking about anything the first time it happened. He was making a simple crane, he’d made so many of them over the years that he could fold it in his sleep. And then, one moment, he’d finished tugging the wings in place, and the next, the entire crane twitched in the palm of his hand before literally _taking flight_.

He hadn’t told anyone, at least not yet. But he didn’t stop experimenting either. He made cats and dogs, monkeys and bears and more birds, and all of them came to life until he actively thought about stopping them. He made boats that turned waterproof with a thought, and flowers that bloomed when he placed them on the windowsill. Then he made a dragon that breathed real fire, and a kelpie that put it out with a smack of its tail that produced a surge of water.

He has yet to find a limit.

He looks up at Peter. The man hasn’t moved. Stiles wonders if Peter even knows he’s still here. He glances down again at the pale blue sheet of paper that’s turned into a polar bear between his fingers. He sets it on the ground, and a moment later, it grows some fur and padded paws, and Stiles can feel the chill it emits even from where he’s sitting. He nudges it forward and watches as it ambles towards Peter’s hunched over form.

He almost laughs when the werewolf nearly topples over when the polar bear presses its nose to the bare skin between Peter’s socks and jeans. The werewolf’s head jerks down, fangs flashing, and then he freezes again when he catches sight of the paper-polar bear.

Said paper-polar bear noses curiously at Peter’s ankle again before flopping onto its tiny butt and plastering itself against what little of Peter it can reach. It’s enough for its chill to spread, and slowly, the rigid line of Peter’s shoulders relax.

Of course, then the man looks up, straight at Stiles, blue eyes wide with genuine surprise.

Stiles smirks and winks, and then he surrounds himself with a colony of icy penguins before leaning back with a relieved sigh.

Much better.

 

* * *

 

It continues from there, even after the heat wave ends and the weather finally cools. Stiles doesn’t really intend to, but somehow, during another pack meeting that he only half-listens to, he ends up folding a pack of multi-coloured wolves that play-wrestle each other for a bit on the couch space between Stiles and Peter before the Alpha - complete with red eyes - lead the rest of its pack into Peter’s laptop bag, and Stiles doesn’t make them leave so they end up hitching a ride home with Peter when the werewolf leaves.

Peter watches it all with fascinated wonder. He doesn’t give the wolves back, and Stiles hasn’t seen the polar bear since he sent it to Peter.

 

* * *

 

A red fox joins Peter’s growing collection. More than once, Stiles sees its tufted tail sticking out of Peter’s jacket pocket, and something in his chest grows inexplicably warm.

 

* * *

 

An array of exotic birds swoop over to perch in Peter’s hair one day when they have the loft to themselves again because the rest of the pack is out trying to talk sense into several redcaps who seem to have moved into the Preserve and have already stoned half a dozen hikers to death. Stiles and Peter have been ordered to stay behind because Peter voted to kill them all and Stiles agreed.

The birds begin grooming Peter’s hair to their liking. Peter pins Stiles with a long-suffering expression. Stiles grins back and folds him a sea serpent that grows and grows until it’s long enough to twine around Peter’s arm and drape across his shoulders, the fins around its head flaring as it tastes the air with its tongue, its black scales glittering and the glide of its body rustling like the crinkle of paper.

Peter watches the serpent for a long moment before looking back at Stiles, and if there’s something reverent and hungry in that gaze, well, Stiles can’t be blamed for blushing just a little.

No one’s ever looked at him that way before.

 

* * *

 

Another three hikers die over the next two weeks. When it doesn’t seem like anything actually worth doing will be done about the problem, Stiles meets Peter in the woods one night, and they stand together as a serpent made of paper and magic crushes its prey between its jaws.

 

* * *

 

“It’s late,” Peter says afterwards, their serpent slithering along at their feet. It’s as thick as Stiles’ torso and about ten feet long now. “Come home with me. My place is closest.”

Stiles slants a sideways look at the werewolf, who stares back steadily, waiting for his answer.

They reach the edge of the forest, and a single thought spared shrinks the serpent to a quarter of its size, and when Stiles crouches down, it rears up and wraps itself comfortably around him. When he straightens again, he catches the way Peter smiles, soft and appreciative and full of a quiet sort of respect.

The werewolf has never asked him to make something, anything. But he takes everything Stiles gives him like every creation is something precious, and Stiles thinks he could love him for that alone.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, and when Peter takes his hand and threads their fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.

 

* * *

 

They sleep in the same bed for the first time that night. Only sleep, but Stiles lies in the cradle of Peter’s arms and nods off like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes in the morning, his red fox is on the nightstand, curled up and snoozing. Beside it is a wolf. It’s not one of his. It’s lifeless and only paper, its ears are lopsided, and one of its legs looks a little crooked, but the paper is the blue of Peter’s eyes, and Stiles finds himself smiling.

A blink and a breath later, the wolf grows a grey-white fur coat and the blue recedes to become its eyes. It stretches, shakes itself, and then trots over to the fox and lies down behind it, cracking a sharp-toothed yawn before curling around the fox and going to sleep as well.

Stiles’ smile widens, and when he presses back into the warm chest behind him, arms tighten around his waist, and a pleased-sounding growl rumbles in his ear.

Stiles closes his eyes and drifts off again, breathing slowing once more to sync with the werewolf at his back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp


	58. Venom Ridge (Pt.8)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspective-y chap with a teeny bit of plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Fluff, Mates, True Mates, Dark Stiles, Dark Peter, Alpha Peter

 

It comes as a surprise to exactly no one when Derek busts down the apartment door a few days later on an early Wednesday morning.

Unfortunately for him, that’s about as far as he gets.

The arguably insane Alpha kicks down the door like Peter doesn’t have neighbours literally fifty feet away through a wall that’s hardly soundproof, bellows “PETER!” in a way too loud voice, and tries to charge inside the way Derek Hale charges into everything – headlong and with zero plan besides throwing his brute strength at the problem as if doing it enough times would solve everything.

And so of course he slams straight into Stiles’ Stranger Danger wards (he cackled when he named them while Peter looked on with a terribly pained expression) and subsequently gets blasted off his feet and right over the railing of the landing outside.  He hits the cement down below with a sickening crack and a howl, and all Stiles can really do is stare blearily from over his coffee mug at the now empty doorway while marvelling at the sheer stupidity that is actually capable of existing in this world.

“Was that my dear nephew I heard, screaming my name like some fourteenth-century swooning maiden in distress?”

Stiles snickers at that mental image, but then Peter glides into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of low-slung pants, fresh out of the shower, and Stiles’ attention is successfully diverted.  The werewolf’s hair is damp and a little curly, and coupled with that much skin on display, it would take a stronger person than Stiles to not stare.

Peter catches his eye and smirks, preening without shame as his stride turns into a saunter that subtly shows off the flex of his muscles.  Stiles would roll his eyes but honestly, the man really doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of.  Still, he pointedly turns his head away, only for a smile to tug at his own lips when Peter just chuckles and stoops a little to scent him before continuing on in the direction of where Derek’s groans are still audible.

“Now then,” Peter tuts disparagingly at the door currently lying flat on the ground before skirting around it to step outside.  “I suppose I’ll have to deal with Derek’s little tantrum before I can get any breakfast.”

Stiles snorts and gulps down more coffee.  He doesn’t bother following Peter; now that the man’s an Alpha, and one supported by a pack as well, even if that pack only consists of Stiles, there’s no way Derek will be able to get the jump on him.  Besides, it’s _Derek_.

He sets about polishing off the rest of his coffee instead before moving over to the stove and getting started on grating the potatoes for pancakes.

He doesn’t have werewolf hearing so, mostly, he only hears indistinct bits and pieces of the conversation taking place in the parking lot outside in broad daylight.  Werewolves aren’t very subtle, are they?

But once, memorably, Derek snarls loudly enough for Stiles to pick up, “You don’t deserve any of the money!”, which is followed by Peter’s mildly amused, “Why ever not?”

Then of course there’s another round of, “You killed _Laura!_ ”, which Peter parries with a far more level and derisively condescending, “First of all, what in the world does that have to do with regaining _my_ money from you?  Last I checked, you never contributed a dime to the family accounts when you were sixteen.  The only reason I acknowledge the fact that any of the money is yours is entirely down to the fact that we’re related, and therefore part of it is your inheritance.  Second of all, you and dear Laura were the ones who left me to rot; even you – as pathetic a werewolf as you’ve turned out to be – should know what that would’ve done to someone who’d just lost most of his entire pack and was abandoned by the only two left, _on top of_ the injuries I suffered.  You have no room to complain when that decision comes back to bite you, Derek.  And third,”

Even Stiles pauses, picturing the curl of Peter’s mouth, a rictus of shattered glass and rage hidden behind a thin veneer of mocking civility.

“Third, do you really want to bring up who killed who?  Again?  Let me remind you, Nephew, at least I only killed one in a fit of insanity.  _You_ killed the rest because you wanted to _get your dick wet_.”

A roar punctuates the quiet morning after that, but that’s quickly cut off by the crunch of breaking bone and then silence, and Stiles doesn’t hear anything else for a while.  He has the grated potatoes sizzling in a pan by the time Peter strolls back in, claw marks curving across his abdomen, already healing, and bloodstains in the fabric of his pants, but otherwise looking unharmed.

“Well that was exciting,” Peter says airily even as he picks up the front door and sets it back in place as best he can considering the hinges and lock are now broken, except then he crowds into Stiles’ back, arms winding around his waist, and for a long moment, he buries his face in Stiles’ neck and doesn’t say anything else.

Stiles doesn’t speak either.  He accommodates Peter easily as he fries the potato pancakes and then plates them.  The werewolf lets him go to help set the table and pour both of them some fresh coffee but he nudges the barstools close enough together that their arms brush when they finally take a seat.

“I’m surprised nobody called the cops,” Stiles remarks first as he digs into his breakfast.

Peter scoffs.  “Nobody ever calls the cops unless it relates to them directly.  Especially in this town.”

Stiles considers that for a second before shrugging.  True.  With all the noise and drama that supernatural fights tend to kick up, if people actually did their civic duty, werewolves would’ve been found out a long time ago.

“He’ll back off now?”  Stiles asks instead, slanting a sideways look at Peter whose expression suddenly looks a little closed off.  “Did he ask what I was doing here?”

The man hums noncommittally around a mouthful of coffee before tipping a sardonic smirk at Stiles.  “I’m pretty sure he overlooked you actually.  He didn’t mention you at all.  And I told him he was welcome to take the money issue to court if he wants,” He shakes his head.  “But he won’t.  It’s too much trouble for him, not to mention too much social interaction, and even he knows he won’t win against me, even if he’ll never admit it.  It’s just far easier to let it go.  He might posture and try to start a few more brawls but he’s already lost, and he knows it.”  He shrugs delicately.  “If the problem isn’t a straightforward one that he can solve with his fists, Derek tends to lack… motivation.  Or imagination.  I’ve never quite figured out which.”

Stiles spends the next several bites of his food digesting this.  From what he’s seen of Derek… yeah.  The guy almost always resorts to violence first.  Granted, there were a lot of times when violence was needed – Exhibit A: feral Alpha; Exhibit B: kanima; Exhibit C: prejudiced hunters, and so and so forth – but there were also a lot of times when it wasn’t – Exhibit A: threatening Scott into helping him instead of just explaining shit and asking politely; Exhibit B: threatening Stiles into doing what he wants instead of just _explaining shit and asking politely_.  Derek in general lacks manners, so much so that Stiles sometimes wonders if the dude’s parents ever actually taught him any or if they really just told him aggression is the answer to everything and then set him loose on the world.

Then again, Peter turned out fine.  Fine-ish.  Fine, with a ruthless streak against those who try to hurt him and his, but Stiles doesn’t really see a problem with that, so honestly, Peter turned out _very_ fine.  In more ways than one.

He gives himself a mental slap and fights down an uncomfortable flush.  It probably doesn’t help that Peter’s still half-naked next to him.

And also now side-eyeing him with more than a little amusement.

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbles into his food.

Peter just laughs, the asshole, and trails teasing fingers over Stiles’ wrist, which doesn’t help _at all_.

But, well.

Stiles glances at him again and finds the man smiling softly at him, the shadows from before already dispersed.

He supposes a little embarrassment is worth a look like that.

 

* * *

 

It’s the first day back to school, much to Stiles’ – and teenagers everywhere – dismay.  He’s already packed his bag and brought it over to the apartment last night though so at least he doesn’t have to rush around getting ready.  Peter has a car too and offers him a ride.

“I have to stop by the hardware store to get my door fixed anyway,” He adds drolly.  “I’m almost tempted to make Derek fork over the money for that, but it’s not like I can’t afford it myself, and honestly at this point, the less I have to do with my nephew, the better.”

Stiles snorts his agreement, but he also makes sure to link a ward together to give the illusion of an intact door before they leave.

“Do you want me to pick you up?”  Peter asks as he pulls up to the curb just around the corner from the school.  They both agree that there’s no need for the extra drama that will undoubtedly ensue if someone they know sees or even hears about Peter driving Stiles to school.

“Nah, I’ll just walk,” Stiles assures him as he clambers out of the car.  “Coach always holds a team meeting after school on the first day back anyway, so I’ll be late.  Meet you at your place though?”

Peter nods, and before Stiles can get out all the way, the werewolf tugs him back just enough to nuzzle his temple and run a possessive hand through his hair.

Stiles rolls his eyes.  “Oh my god, Peter, I cannot smell more like you than I already do.”

Peter pulls back just so he can pin Stiles with a leer.  “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Stiles.”

It takes a moment for Stiles to get it, then he squawks, and his ears feel hot.  “You are _such_ a creeperwolf!”  He huffs, briefly presses a hand of his own to the curve of Peter’s jawline, and then scrambles out of the car.  “You can last six hours without me.”  He pauses, sobering and ducking back down to peer at Peter.  “Be careful though.  Deucalion and Kali are still out there.”

This time, the look Peter aims at him is terribly fond, and somehow, that’s even worse for Stiles’ heartrate than any suggestive glances.  But at least the werewolf only tells him, “You as well.  Just because you’re in school and the twins are gone doesn’t mean the rest of them can’t still get to you.”

Unspoken goes the reminder that he’ll also be _out_ of school when he walks to Peter’s place, and it makes the fact that Peter trusts him to keep himself safe that much more important.

“I’ll call you if I need help,” Stiles promises in return, because if Peter trusts him to know how much he can handle, then Stiles has to live up to that.

 

* * *

 

It’s easy to fall back into the monotony of mandatory education.  Less easy is the realization that he has no friends left to hang out with.  Or, just the one friend actually, which makes him sound all sorts of pathetic.

To some degree, he already expects it.  Scott was already constantly blowing him off for Allison and then Isaac _before_ their fight; now, they might as well not even know each other.  They share Intro to Business first thing, and when Stiles walks into the classroom, Scott is pointedly not looking at him as he makes a show of taking a seat at the front with Isaac on one side, Danny on the other, and some random kid behind him.  To be fair to Danny, the dude looks a little confused as to why Scott was bagging the desk next to his at all; they’re not exactly friends, and they’ve never sat next to each other unless the teacher happened to be assigning seats that term.

Stiles almost rolls his eyes.  He ignores the sting he feels and instead grabs a seat on the opposite side of the room.  It’s away from the windows and close to the only exit without being directly in its line of sight – he’s as safe as he can be should anything of the supernatural variety come bursting in.

First days are always mostly introductions and an overview of the syllabus.  They get some reading assigned before the bell rings, and then it’s off to history, which Stiles also shares with Scott but not Isaac or any of the others.  A bunch of lacrosse players – Jackson’s old friends – are here though, and they’re quick to wave Scott over like they’re long-time buddies and didn’t once laugh themselves sick because Scott had an asthma attack after running a lap around the field.  Scott joins them, all puppy smiles and eagerness, and Stiles feels disgust replace the sting of rejection.

There are lines one shouldn’t cross even in high school, and this is one of them.  But Scott’s been sitting with the popular kids for months, ever since he made first line and co-captain with Jackson last year, and only Jackson continued to kick up a fuss over Scott’s sudden aptitude for sports.  Scott always called it forgiving and forgetting when Stiles brought it up though.  Stiles secretly called it a serious lack of self-respect.

Stiles shakes his head and takes a seat in approximately the same place.  Which is why he gets a perfect view of Boyd and Erica walking in together.

They spot Scott right away – hard not to since he’s part of the rowdiest group of students in the room.  Scott doesn’t though, with his back turned.  Boyd and Erica glance at each other and make no move to go to Scott, but they seem… skittish, more uncertain than the last time Stiles saw them strutting around in school, and despite having a werewolf’s constitution now, both of them seem a little on the gaunt side, like they’d been seriously ill for a while.  They stand huddled together, like they don’t feel safe even in the middle of a classroom.

Stiles watches them and remembers.  Remembers the flash of agony and the black that swallowed him after his car door connected with his head before waking up covered in garbage in a back alley and a new dent in his mother’s jeep.  Remembers being tackled too hard on the field too many times and walking home with bruises that even Jackson at his most aggressive never gave him.

He never really understood what these two’s problem with him was.  He’s literally never done anything to them, never even spoken to them before because they just didn’t run in the same circles.  He still doesn’t understand.  Sure, Erica had a crush on him, but he didn’t even know about it until she told him, and even if he did, he doesn’t think he would’ve been nasty about it.  And teenagers have unrequited crushes all the time; that doesn’t give them leave to react the way Erica did – Stiles certainly never went and beat _Lydia_ up just because she didn’t return his feelings, and _she_ actively ignored him or looked at him like he wasn’t fit to scrub her shoes for _years_.

Maybe they blamed him for not standing up for them against other bullies, Erica in particular, but… they weren’t friends.  Stiles isn’t so altruistic that he’d go throwing himself in-between every helpless victim and their tormentor like some do-gooding superhero.  He called the nurse or 9-1-1 a few times whenever Erica had a seizure and he happened to be nearby because he was used to doing the same thing for Scott, and it’s not like he’s _heartless_ , but he didn’t think he was a particularly horrible person for not defending every bully victim the way he defended Scott all the time.  And if they think he is, well hey, that’s not his problem either.

They’re not _his_ , is the thing.  So he has no reason to protect them.  Then, or now.

He glances away just as they begin turning in his direction.  He doesn’t look back even when he can feel their eyes on him, and when the bell rings and they shuffle to a couple seats at the very back, he doesn’t bother turning around the way everyone else does when their names are called for attendance.

He’s the first to leave when the lunch bell rings.  Nobody calls out after him.

 

* * *

 

He spends lunch outside, watching other students milling about in small crowds.  He knows he and Peter are going to have to expand their pack soon, and while it’s been nice getting all this time to spend with just the two of them, even Stiles can admit that, practically speaking, remaining a pack of two is stupid.  Numbers aren’t everything of course, but they do count for something, and if they pick right, they’ll have quality too.  Besides, being Peter’s only source of support and human interaction is… a little daunting, if Stiles is honest, and just… not right.  As romantic as it might be to have someone who looks at Stiles like he hung the moon depending on him and him alone for every aspect of their life, in practice, it’s probably both unhealthy and a power imbalance train-wreck waiting to happen.

He’s happy, really happy, happier than he’s been in a long time, to have found someone as devoted to him as he’s beginning to realize Peter is, even though he can still barely even begin to wrap his mind around the idea of _anyone_ liking him that much.  But that just makes it even more important to make sure Peter has other bonds, other people who can be real Pack to him.  No matter what he feels for Peter, Stiles can’t be everything all the time to one person.  A part of him admittedly wants to keep Peter all to himself, to not let anyone close to the one person who sees all of what Stiles is and still wants to stay with him, but that’s probably his insecurities speaking, which isn’t fair to Peter, and in the long run, it won’t be fair to Stiles either.

So he lets his gaze wander over his schoolmates, mentally going through what he knows of them.  None of them really stick out.  Of course, there are a few who _aren’t_ in the vicinity that jump out at him – Lydia, for one, but he’s pretty sure she’s never going to forgive Peter, and Peter hasn’t even mentioned her after she accomplished her part in resurrecting him from the dead.  You’d think he would, considering she’s a certified genius and Peter would know that, but when Stiles asked the other day if Peter had anyone in mind that he wanted to turn, the werewolf only shrugged, and he wasn’t lying when he said nobody stood out to him.

Besides, Peter aside, why would Lydia want to be in a pack with _Stiles?_   He’s spent ten years trying to impress her, and frankly it’s gotten old.  He doesn’t want to have to _keep_ trying to prove himself just to get Lydia in their pack.

Then there’s Danny.  They could always use a hacker.  But Danny is Lydia’s friend, and he tolerates Stiles but doesn’t seem to like him much.  If he finds out about the supernatural and wants to join a pack, he’ll most likely go with whichever one Lydia’s in, which won’t be Stiles and Peter’s.

Aside from those two though, Stiles can’t really think of anyone else.  He doesn’t even consider Scott or Isaac.  Those two are a package deal, and Stiles _knows_ Scott would never accept Peter as Alpha.  Boyd and Erica are out.  Derek already killed his uncle once.  Stiles will light _him_ on fire before he gives him another chance at Peter’s throat.  There’s nobody else.

Stiles heaves a sigh.  Well, maybe someone suitable will come along later.  There’s no _immediate_ rush to expand.  And they should probably focus on finishing off the Alpha Pack before doing anything else.

 

* * *

 

They have a new English teacher, and the moment Stiles walks past her, his magic pulls back like the lips of a beast baring fangs.  Stiles twitches but doesn’t otherwise let his alarm show, hastily taking a seat instead, this time at the very back.

Allison and Lydia are in this class with him.  Lydia doesn’t look at him.  Allison does but quickly looks away.  Stiles has a bigger problem than playing nice with either of them.

He keeps his head down through the whole hour and carefully doesn’t move any faster than he usually does as he packs up when the bell rings.  He’s not sure what’s wrong with Jennifer Blake – she’s friendly, funny, engaging, and seemingly a pretty cool teacher so far, but she feels… off, cold and dark and a bit like falling into a bottomless pit when he reaches out with his own magic.  It’s unnerving and makes him nauseous, and Stiles can’t get out of there fast enough.  He has no real proof but he’s absolutely certain there is something very wrong with Blake.

And a woman with magic that’s just _wrong_ showing up at the same time the Alpha Pack is hanging around in good old Beacon Hills?  Well, Stiles doesn’t believe in coincidence.

He skips Coach’s meeting.  Finstock likes him; he’ll forgive him for missing his start-of-season speech.

 

* * *

 

“Peter, we got a problem.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blah
> 
> A bit of a bridge so I can speed through the rest of Season 3A cuz it's kinda boring me at this point and I wanna get to 3B cuz I think I want to explore Kira's character in this 'verse. A what-if Kira had more sense and met Stiles first instead of randomly falling head over heels for Scott kind of thing...
> 
> OR OR OR FINSTOCK. PETER GIVING FINSTOCK THE BITE. WEREWOLF!FINSTOCK. FINSTOCK IS PACK.
> 
> How the fuck would I even write Finstock omg...


	59. Whoops Another Assassin!Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is in his bedroom doing homework when his email pings to tell him his private dropbox two towns over has a new delivery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **General Warnings:** Canon Divergence, Assassin Stiles, Minor Character Death

 

 _Well,_ he thinks later once he has the cassette playing and the three keywords entered to get to the deadpool list.   _With all the noise they make, it was only a matter of time before someone put out hits on them._

He lingers on some of the names he knows - 20 million dollars for Lydia, 25 million for Scott, 15 million for Derek.

What special snowflakes.

Stiles wonders if he should be offended that he’s not on here.  But then, it looks like it’s a list of supernatural creatures, and whatever else Stiles is, supernatural isn’t one of them.  Besides, none of them trumps his current bounty.

He scans the list again, pausing this time on KATE ARGENT 12,000,000.

Well, well, well.  Look what the dead dragged back.

Stiles smirks and leans back in his chair.  He’s going to have to put a stop to this ridiculousness.  And whoever posted this list in the first place is just asking for a bullet to the head.  But he supposes, before he gets on that, it wouldn’t hurt to cash in on a few of these hits.

Most of the McCall Pack have survived by the skin of their teeth so far.  They can hang on for a bit longer, and maybe assassins trying to kill them will teach them some subtlety at last.

He thinks about that for a moment.

Then again, it’s probably not something he should get his hopes up about.

 

* * *

 

Stiles doesn’t bother with the hits sitting in the thousands.  Those are beneath him; he works for millions now.

He skips over his friends too, of course.  No matter how much their bumbling ineptitude when it comes to taking care of a problem, _permanently_ , exasperates him, they’re still under his protection.

He thinks, briefly, of going after Noshiko Yukimura, who has a bounty of 5 million, but then he dismisses that too.  She’s Kira’s mother, and that gives her a pass, if barely.  Stiles will never forgive her for her role in keeping silent and indirectly causing the nogitsune’s rampage, but he likes Kira enough not to take her mother away from her.

Besides, if there’s one thing he might actually thank the nogitsune for, it’s that the fox’s little jaunt in his body reminded him of his more… sociopathic tendencies.  Not that Stiles needed help with _that_ before, but… for a while, running around after Scott and running around after Derek and trying to save the town time and time again like amateur vigilantes fumbling in the dark, Stiles thinks he forgot them for a while.  Or left them on the wayside, more likely, and he didn’t even realize how much it chafed at him, made him jittery and restless, how much he missed the freedom of a perfect shot, the power of the execution, and the silence of death that follows.

The nogitsune jolted something loose in him, and these days, he’s a little more detached from the pack and their headless chicken imitations.  It helps that they don’t seem to want him around all that much after the possession and Allison, although if he’s honest, even before the nogitsune’s killing spree, Stiles’ status as a mere _human_ already saw Scott keeping him out of the loop more than once.  Stiles could’ve _removed_ Gerard for him from the start if he realized Scott didn’t have a problem at all with killing the bastard.  Then again, he did insist on keeping Gerard alive after he failed to kill him using Derek, so it was probably for the best that Stiles kept his hands clean of the whole matter.  Right up until nobody was looking and Stiles tracked the geriatric down at a nursing home and ended him there of course.  That was a good day.

The other werewolves too treated him like he was always lesser, shoving him around like it was their right.  If they knew what he was, they wouldn’t have dared.  But Stiles doesn’t kill innocents, and he had no desire to blow his cover - still doesn’t - so he let them condescend him and smack him around and threaten him to their hearts’ content.

Nowadays, he still lends a hand, but he’s also taken a step back from it all, no longer pushing himself to rush research for them or hatch their next plans for them.  It’s a far less stressful existence overall, and Stiles almost wants to kick himself for not doing it sooner.

He supposes the biggest difference is that he’s no longer trying to win their approval.  He was so excited when Scott was bitten and Derek showed up.  He knew about werewolves but he didn’t personally _know_ any, and when he finally did, he thought maybe he’d found people to fit in with at last.  People with more animal instincts and looser morals, if only because of the very _nature_ of werewolves.  Packs governed themselves because they lacked a true body of law enforcement aside from hunters, and those were more often corrupt than not.  It sounded a lot like how Stiles governs _him_ _self_ on his job, researching his targets and picking out the ones who deserve to die and killing them before they became a further problem to him or to other people.  So surely, in such a blood for blood world, _werewolves_ would understand Stiles’ methods and rules.

But no, that turned out to be a huge disappointment.  If anything, Scott was even worse.  Stiles has always known his best friend was something of a white knight with a checkerboard’s outlook on life, and when he was human, Stiles tolerated it with an indulgent kind of amusement, but that sort of thinking isn’t fit for the world they now live in, and if possible, Scott became even worse after turning into a werewolf, constantly rejecting what he was, constantly condemning people that didn’t align with his view of how everything should be, constantly refusing to keep a more open mind and compromise.

And Derek is just a brooding, glowering, unhappy husk of a wolf, stunted by guilt and prone to violence.  The newly bitten kids all took after either Derek or Scott as their role models, and the only one who ever actually came close to Stiles’ idea of a werewolf was Peter.  Whom everyone condemned.

So he kept his other half, other life under wraps, knowing none of them would ever understand.  Well, Peter might, but there’s no telling what Peter Hale would do with the information, and the man himself is… he’s smart and clever and matches Stiles’ own sense of humour well enough that Stiles doesn’t want to have to kill him if he tries to use Stiles in his own little power-plays.

So he says nothing, and now here they all are, a few years down the road and still neck-deep in danger.  Stiles is mostly just amused.  He’s been taking more jobs again so he hasn’t been around as much, doesn’t _want_ to be around as much either, but the deadpool at least is a break from the monotony.

He’s surprised to find Parrish on the list, and he’s not sure what the hell the deputy is to also be worth $5 million, but the guy seems nice enough, a background check doesn’t turn up anything suspicious, and Stiles’ dad likes him.  So he gets to live too, although Stiles is definitely going to keep an eye on him in case he turns out as psychotic as the rest of the crazies who like to turn Beacon Hills into their hunting grounds.

He settles on Patrick Clark.  It takes a bit of debatably legal digging but Stiles soon finds out he’s an escaped inmate of Eichen House, a wendigo apparently, and with a kill count of several dozen before he was locked up.

He’s also only worth a measly million which makes Stiles sigh, but he’s either not allowed to go after half the list or they’re worth even less.  Or - in Kate’s case - he doesn’t quite know where she is just yet.

So the wendigo it is.

 

* * *

 

It takes about five days for Stiles to track him down.  To be fair, he’s busy fielding Scott’s freak-out about biting some kid while fending off a wendigo - not the one Stiles is planning to kill - who was eventually murdered at the hospital less than a day after his family was also killed.  Stiles gets his hands on the autopsy and smiles when he recognizes the Mute’s handiwork.

Oh excellent.  He was hoping the Mute might show up.  30 billion dollars, and it just strode right into Stiles’ town.

Now _that’s_ more like it.

Then of course, there’s Peter’s outraged meltdown about his stolen money, which is boring and a little funny right up until the werewolf snarls, “It was 117 million dollars in bearer bonds!”

Lydia smirks as she leaves to meet up with the others, and Stiles turns to follow her, but he eyes the open safe speculatively.  “117, huh?”

Peter sneers at him, probably thinking Stiles is mocking him.  Stiles shrugs and heads out after Lydia.

117 million.  The exact total of the deadpool.

 

* * *

 

He catches up to Patrick Clark a few days later.  A single shot to the head from the roof opposite the butcher shop that the wendigo is holed up in, and the job is done.  He packs up, cleans up, and dumps the body in a public parking lot.

Three hours later, it’s all over the news, and Stiles gets a million dollars wired to one of his accounts.

 

* * *

 

The pack gathers at the loft for a meeting, mostly to talk - again - about the deaths and Kate and what to do about both.  Peter is there too, sitting off to the side as usual, tight-lipped and tense, expression cold.  He doesn’t bring up his money or the incident in the loft just yesterday when he was attacked by the Mute, probably knowing full well the others will just mock him for it again.  He doesn’t do anything as obvious as rub at his chest, but on occasion, his shoulders roll a little, the muscles in his chest flexing, and a shadow of a grimace would cross his face.  From what Stiles heard, the Mute got him straight in the chest with a wolfsbane-coated tomahawk and Peter still kicked his ass, at least enough to make him retreat, and even managed to get the assassin’s communicator off of him.  Stiles can admit that’s pretty impressive.  Less impressive is Derek - still smirking like the mere memory made his whole month when he recounted how he had to burn the wolfsbane out of his uncle with a blowtorch.

There are days when Stiles wonders what exactly it was about Kate - creepy all around and screaming SEXUAL PREDATOR, STAY AWAY, KIDS even as a human - that attracted a sixteen-year-old Derek with a werewolf’s sense of smell.

But then there are days like this when Stiles doesn’t have to wonder very much at all.

Peter’s shoulders roll again, a flicker of discomfort darting across his features before they smooth out again.  Other than that, he’s not doing anything else but he’s still the most interesting thing in the room, considering everyone else is just going through the same song and dance over their current crisis and not actually coming up with a viable plan to _do_ anything about it.

Well, Scott texted Chris Argent about it, so that’s something.  Actually, he just told the guy about his not-so-dead sister.  Over text.

Sometimes, Stiles finds Scott’s hypocrisy equal parts hilarious and grating.  The True Alpha always looks so terribly disapproving whenever Stiles says or does something insensitive, and then Scott goes and does the exact same thing and finds nothing wrong with it.  And tactlessly breaking bad news is the least of his double standards.

When the pack starts rehashing everything all over again, Stiles tunes them out in favour of pulling out his phone and watching the blip of the tracker he planted in the Mute’s car blinking away near the south end of town.

Then his mind wanders to the kids he saw at school today, Violet and Garrett.  They’re older than Stiles, but only by a few years, and they’re still baby-faced enough to pass as freshmen.

The Orphans.  $3 million apiece.  Not too bad.  Stiles smiles a bit.  He wouldn’t mind taking their bounties too, and it’s been awhile since he’s had time for a bit of a challenge.  Disaster after disaster striking Beacon Hills has cut into his work time, and it’s been… an uncomfortable itch under his skin.

He glances at Peter again, blinking slowly when he finds the werewolf staring back at him, head cocked curiously to one side, his features blank but his eyes sharp.

Stiles raises his eyebrows before turning his attention back to the pack.

Peter doesn’t stop staring until they all get up to leave.

 

* * *

 

Stiles kills the Mute that very same evening, a sniper shot from an empty building at an angle that he’s certain even his babcia would’ve been proud of.

He disassembles his rifle, shoulders it, then jogs across the street and into the Mute’s little hideout to snap a few pictures before calling in an anonymous tip.

He already stopped by the Dollar Tree earlier and picked up a small box and some bright wrapping paper.

He drops off the whole thing at the post office before driving home.

 

* * *

 

30 billion dollars look good even on a computer screen.  He adds 6 million to it a couple days later after taking out the Orphans and buys himself several new video games to celebrate.

 

* * *

 

In-between it all, the Sheriff comes home and stands at Stiles’ bedroom doorway for a long moment, just staring at his son.  Stiles makes an enquiring noise around the straw in his milkshake, and his dad heaves a sigh before jabbing a finger at him.

“Keep it to the bad guys.  And I want a Meat Lovers for dinner.”

Stiles salutes sloppily. His dad rolls his eyes and goes to call for delivery.

 

* * *

 

The Chemist is next.  He’s creepier than the Mute, in Stiles’ opinion, which is saying a lot because the Mute lacked an entire _mouth_.  But the Chemist reminds Stiles far too much of the doctors in Eichen House, cold hands and colder eyes, devoted to his science the way only true fanatics can be, and Stiles doesn’t want the guy wandering around Beacon Hills any longer than absolutely necessary.

Dear old Simon gets three days to see the sights, which is three days too many because he manages to worm his way into the school and even attacks Coach while he’s there.

Finstock recovers, but Stiles still makes the Chemist’s death very messy and very painful.  You’d be surprised how much damage can be done with a sniper rifle if you have perfect aim.

 

* * *

 

He snaps more pictures and sends them off to collect on the bounty. There isn’t much of the head left in the aftermath but the body is still identifiable to both police forensics and those who actually recognized the assassin on sight, and the whole incident made headlines for a week.

50 billion dollars was how much the Chemist was worth, and that’s how much Stiles earns.  He also gets a significant increase in his own bounty, and that of course is worth even more than the kill.

 

* * *

 

“It’s Echo,” Braeden announces one afternoon while they’re pouring over crime scene photos of each of the recent string of deaths that Lydia managed to charm out of Parrish.  “No doubt about it.”

“Echo?”  Scott looks grateful for any excuse to stop looking at the glossy pictures of various corpses laid out on the table.  He pulls a confused face.  “Like another assassin?”

Braeden nods briskly, picking up one of the pictures of the Mute’s head.  Scott goes back to looking a bit queasy, especially when the mercenary turns it over to face them, one fingernail tapping at the bullet wound.

“Single shot to the head is their MO,” Braeden tells them.  “Usually with a sniper rifle.  Always clean, always counts.”

“But what about this one?”  Kira chimes in, grimacing at the scatter of photos depicting the Chemist’s remains.  “Is it not them or…?”

Braeden tosses the one of the Mute back on the table and peers at the ones Kira is pointing to instead.  “Still them.  Those are bullet wounds from the same rifle.”  She shrugs.  “Looks personal.  Probably pissed Echo off somehow.  They’ve been known to hold a grudge on occasion.  That’s when the messier kills appear.”

“But… why are they killing assassins?”  Scott asks.  “Are they… helping us?”  His face tells everyone exactly what he thinks of that kind of help.

Braeden scoffs, leaning back in her seat.  “No, probably not, unless any of you are acquainted with them?  But they’re probably just in it for the money.”

“Money?”

“You think world-class killers aren’t worth their own weight in gold?”  Braeden arches an eyebrow before glancing at the pictures again.  “The Mute - 30 billion dollars.”  Scott’s mouth dropped open.  “The Orphans - 6 million together.  And the Chemist - 50 billion dollars.  If you send proof that you killed them, and no doubt Echo did, you get paid.  It was probably child’s play for them too.  An assassin of Echo’s calibre?  You can bet they were given the deadpool like the others.  But that’s small fry to them.  Echo’s smart.  Has to be, with their reputation.  The moment they heard someone opened season on Beacon Hills?  They’re not gonna be thinking of a bunch of kids and civvies worth-” She nods at Scott.  “-25 mil at most.  They’re gonna be thinking of all the bigger fish conveniently gathering in one place for them like they’re just begging to be shot.”

A stunned silence follows.

“...So… they won’t come after us then?”  Kira asks hesitantly.  “Are they just going to leave once they’re done, um, done taking out the other assassins?”

Braeden shrugs again.  “Yeah, probably.  No reason to stay, right?”

“Well we can’t let them!”  Scott bursts out.  “What they’re doing is wrong!”

Breaden gives him some serious side-eye before glancing at Derek, who shrugs and actually looks a little bit embarrassed on Scott’s behalf.  Braeden rolls her eyes before aiming a flat look at the True Alpha.

“Look, kid, I’m sure you mean well, and that’s… nice, but how exactly are you planning to stop them?  You couldn’t even stop the Mute or the Chemist or even the Orphans.  The only reason you stopped Haigh - and he’s not even a professional - is because that deputy of yours happened to be fireproof.  And that wasn’t actually you, so technically, _you_ didn’t really stop him either.  And this is _Echo_.”

“Why Echo?”  Lydia cuts in abruptly before Scott can do more than open his mouth.  “The Mute is… self-explanatory.  The Chemist because he uses weaponized diseases.  The Orphans is almost cute and I suppose about the level of a couple teenagers who like to kill.  What is Echo from?  Echo as in Echo and Narcissus?”

Braeden gives her a strange look.  “No, sweetie.  Echo as in that’s the only thing left after one of their kills.  Their face has never been recorded.  They’ve never been arrested, never even been spotted and chased.  Nobody even knows if they’re a man or a woman.  Rumour has it though that it’s a title passed down because no one in living memory can actually remember a time when Echo wasn’t around.  But one thing that’s always the same is that the only evidence people have that Echo’s been by and gone is the echo of a gunshot and the resulting corpse.”

“Well, we’ll be the ones to stop them then!”  Scott jumps in again, and this time, even Derek sighs at him.

Braeden shakes his head and gets to her feet, packing up as she goes.  “You can try.  But I don’t know why you would.  As far as I can see, Echo’s done you a favour.  No more assassins knocking on your door, and the only one on the deadpool that they did go after was a wendigo who was locked up because he ate people.”  She pauses, and then gestures at herself.  “I’m a 35 billion-dollar bounty, Scott.”  Scott gawks again.  Braeden nods.  “And I’m not worried.  Echo has a reputation.  They kill, but only those who deserve it.  And trust me, the ones they’ve killed in this town?  They definitely deserved it.”

“That’s not for them to decide!”

Breaden levels a cool look on him.  “But it is for _you_ to decide?”

Scott splutters.  “ _I’m_ not going to _kill_ anyone!”

Breaden snorts and doesn’t bother arguing.  “Derek, give me a ride back to my hotel.”

From across the room, Stiles watches them leave.  He can’t help feeling a little flattered by Braeden’s description of him.  It’s rare for him to hear someone’s honest opinion of him.  And she’s right - she does good work, so there’s no reason for him to lay a finger on her.  Or a bullet.

He watches Scott turn to Kira and Lydia and even Malia, earnest and righteous as he begins musing out loud about how they’re going to capture Echo.

Kira and even Lydia respond, if a bit half-heartedly, which frankly is still disappointing, especially in the latter’s case.  Lydia’s less… less like him than Stiles originally thought, and it kills a lot of the attraction he used to feel for her back when he watched her from afar and admired her for the vicious way she destroyed anyone who so much as looked at Danny or Jackson wrong.  These days, she’s… just _less_. Diminished, and Stiles isn’t sure if she was always like this and he was mistaken in his assessment of her, or if proximity to Scott reduced her to this.

Malia on the other hand slants a look at Stiles, and when Stiles just stays sitting on the couch, the werecoyote shrugs and turns back to Scott, as disinterested as Stiles is in the entire proceedings.

She doesn’t know, he thinks, what he does for a living, doesn’t know he’s Echo.  But he knows she can smell _something_ on him that aligns more with her inner animal than the human part of her, and maybe that’s why she always looks to him first.

Not for the first time, he wonders what it would be like if he wasn’t just teaching Malia how to read and write and dress and be a normal girl.  He wonders what it would be like if he taught her his trade too, put a gun in her hand and showed her how to shoulder it, how to breathe, how to pull the trigger.

Wonders if she would prefer that or a knife or something even more hands-on.

Wonders how good she would be at it.

But that’s not something he should push her into, and she’s susceptible enough to his suggestions as it is.  For once, she should have the chance to be normal.

Of course, thoughts of what Malia could be leads to thoughts of what Peter could be.  What he already is.  What he could become with some polishing.  Some structure.

Stiles’ gaze slides over to the man in question, and he’s less surprised than he should be when he finds the werewolf once again already staring back, blue eyes just shy of sparking with otherworldly light.

Stiles is… pretty sure Peter doesn’t know either.  But he can’t help _wondering_.  Can’t help thinking about it.  What would it be like to have Peter working with him?  Strong hands palming a gun or a knife, not a single movement wasted, and sharp enough to keep up, with a frame of mind that would see him flourish.

“Stiles?”  Scott calls out, and Stiles tears his eyes away from the burning glow of Peter’s.  “What do you think?  We still have to track down the Benefactor. If we show ourselves a bit, maybe we can lure Echo in.”

Stiles considers that for a moment, and then he says with deliberate carelessness, “Why?  Just let them go, dude.  This Echo guy seems like they have the right idea here.”, just to see the disappoint bloom on Scott’s face.

Their resident True Alpha really does have that expression raised to an art form.

Scott huffs and turns back to the girls.  Malia flashes Stiles a smirk, and Stiles rolls his eyes back somewhat fondly.  He goes back to scrolling through the news on his laptop, reports of dead bodies that look like they were mauled by a very large cat.

Stiles has to suppress a smile.  The Benefactor first.  It’s time to bring an end to this macabre little game.

And then Kate.  It’s high time someone brings an end to her too.

 

* * *

 

Tracking the cassette back to Ludwig Brunski is easy.  The dropbox is watched at all times, and one would need to be a better hacker than some prison orderly to cut Stiles’ feeds.  Stiles doesn’t think he’s the Benefactor though.  He doesn’t have the intelligence or patience to pull off something like this, and he’s sadistic enough to enjoy doing the dirty work himself, not get other people to do it for him.  But that leaves the question of who _is_.

Lydia and the others are well on their way to terminating the rest of the deadpool contracts after Stiles gives them a few hints so it’s easy for him to slip away for a little face-to-face with Brunski.

Stiles is happy to gut him.  This time, he doesn’t use a rifle.  He carves the man up in an abandoned warehouse and listens to him scream, listens to him beg, and he doesn’t put him out of his misery until he gives Stiles a name.

Meredith.

 

* * *

 

He… probably shouldn’t.  In a way, Meredith is a victim too.  But he listens in on the conversation at the Station and hears the way Meredith twists words and cowers and lays the blame for _her_ actions, _her_ decisions, all on Peter, and hears too how everyone is all too willing to go along with it.

Lying on the roof opposite the Station, he thinks it’s a good thing he doesn’t have his rifle with him.

 

* * *

 

He’s sitting in his room when the Sheriff gets back.  Neither of them says anything right away.  His dad knows him well enough by now to pretty much just assume Stiles hears about everything that happens around this town, and he winces a little when Stiles just looks at him.

Theirs is a special brand of justice, his, and Mom’s, and Babcia’s, and all the Echoes who came before - ruthless, cruel even, and very bloody, but always, always _fair_ \- and his father knew that when he married in.

Sometimes though, Stiles thinks he still needs a reminder.

The Sheriff raises his hands in resignation.  “Just don’t get caught.”

Stiles smiles.  “I never do.”

 

* * *

 

He makes it public.  He makes it an execution.  Most of all, he plants the bullet in Meredith’s head after sending a text to Peter’s phone, rerouted so that it looks like it’s from Lydia’s, and gets him to the Station  just as Meredith and Lydia exit out the front doors.

Lydia screams.  Meredith falls.  And Peter stares for a very long, very still moment at the blood-splattered pavement, his expression unreadable, before he turns and looks directly at the rooftop Stiles had chosen to make the shot from.

Too bad for him Stiles is already gone.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve been busy.”

“Mrrfle,” Stiles says in response around a mouthful of curly fries as he spins around in his desk chair to blink at the werewolf currently lounging on his windowsill.  He swallows, looks down at the game controller in his hands and then at Halo playing on the screen behind him before turning back to Peter with a shrug.  “Very busy, so if you could let me get back to kicking virtual butt…”

Peter hums, looking amused, and promptly invites himself in instead of leaving Stiles to his gaming like a decent person.  Or even a normal person.

After all, normal people wouldn’t consider windows a perfectly acceptable mode of entry.

The werewolf saunters across the room and takes a seat at the end of Stiles’ bed.  He never takes his eyes off Stiles, a smirk curved handsomely across his face.  He doesn’t say anything even when Stiles rolls his eyes and spins back to his video game, and for a while, the only sounds between them is the rapid clicking of buttons.

“Was it a gift?”  Peter asks abruptly, five minutes in.

Stiles pauses the game again and glances over his shoulder.  “Was what a gift?”

Peter’s smile widens, something dark and hungry pushing at the fringes like it’s taking all his control to hold it back.  “Come now, Stiles, there’s no need to be modest.  Or shy.  I won’t tell a soul.”

Stiles squints at him.  “Dude, I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Peter honest-to-god pouts, a moue of disappointment that does nothing to hide the gleam in his eyes.  “Dear _Meredith_ , Stiles.”

Stiles grimaces.  “Yeah, I can’t believe someone had the balls to kill her in front of the police station in broad daylight.  Scott’s freaking out, and Lydia was practically comatose for a while.  I hear it’s another Echo kill though?  Not like there are any other assassins left anyway, and the deadpool’s expired.  At least a funeral’s being arranged for her, I think.  It makes Scott and Lydia feel bet-”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Peter purrs, cutting him off and rising fluidly to his feet in the same instance.

Stiles frowns.  “Yeah?”

Then he stops, because Peter takes a step towards him, then another, until he’s only a foot away.  His head tilts to one side, and he seems to consider Stiles for a moment with a calculating kind of scrutiny, mulling something over in his head.

Then he smiles again, just a little, before sinking down, down, all lupine grace as his legs fold underneath him and he ends up on his knees right there in front of Stiles, hands resting loose on his thighs, quiet.

Stiles doesn’t move.  Peter does, but only to lift his chin a bit more like he’s simply getting a better line of sight to Stiles’ face, when in reality, the motion serves nicely to flash the stretch of Peter’s throat.

Another ten seconds tick by before Stiles finally moves, one hand reaching out, fingers skimming the vulnerable artery racing beneath warm flesh.  Peter shudders, and his eyes go hot and half-lidded.  He sways a little, and a soft, animalistic sound rumbles deep in his chest.

Thoughtfully, Stiles curls a gentle palm around the arch of Peter’s neck, absorbing every minute tremble as he splays fingers over muscle and cartilage.

He thinks again, about what it would be like to have this man beside him, just as deadly, just as skilled in his own way, and he _wants_.

“Nine years,” He murmurs.  “Nine years and nobody ever even suspected.  We’re Echoes though.  Nobody _should_.  But still.  Nobody ever looked twice at me.”

Gleeful triumph lights up Peter’s face even as something dazed and drunk lingers in his eyes.  His voice is a velvety rasp when he speaks.  “Maybe you should spend your time with smarter people.”

Stiles chuckles, running a thumb over the bob of Peter’s throat.  “Maybe I should.  Are you volunteering, Peter?”

The hunger is back, along with the same _want_ that courses through Stiles’ veins.  “Are you offering, Stiles?”

Stiles hums noncommittally and doesn’t answer.  He gives the back of Peter’s neck a last light squeeze before letting go.  A disappointed noise leaks out from between Peter’s lips but he doesn’t move even when Stiles gets to his feet and goes over to his closet to retrieve a suitcase stashed just inside.  He returns and places it beside Peter, who glances at him before reaching out to flick open the clasps.

“I don’t deal in _gifts_ , Peter,” Stiles says as they both stare down at the stacks of cash neatly lining the suitcase’s interior.  “I deal in debts owed and debts repaid.  I deal in _justice_.”  He takes a seat again and nudges the suitcase with one foot.  “117 million dollars, rightfully yours.”

Peter brushes a hand over the money before glancing up again.  “And Meredith was justice too?”

Stiles shrugs lazily.  “She wronged you.  Hurt you.  She probably didn’t _intend_ to, with the way her powers worked and how mentally unstable she was, and she thought she was doing the right thing even, but _she_ still did it.  And then she blamed it all on you.  I took exception to that.  Consider it a debt repaid for saving me from the nogitsune.”

Peter’s grin is fanged.  “You were far less interesting with someone else in the driver’s seat.”

Stiles snorts.  “Exactly how long have you known anyway?”

“About your little side job?”  Peter’s head cants in thought before he admits, “Not until the Chemist.  I suspected when the Mute died, but I wasn’t certain.  The Chemist though was personal, and it might’ve been a prior grudge, but he was killed almost right after he invaded the high school, and I heard that one of the teachers had to be hospitalized?  The crazy one you’re fond of?  It wasn’t hard to connect the dots after that.”  Peter peers up at him with a smirk.  “But even before recent events, I always knew there was something different about you, sweetheart.”

He pauses and then shuffles forward, still on his knees.  “And now I know for certain,” His voice has dropped to something barely above a whisper, eyes intent on Stiles, reverent.  “I could help, you know I could.  Let me hunt with you, Stiles.”

Stiles reaches out, fingers tangling in Peter’s hair, something possessive uncoiling in his chest when he thinks again of working with a partner who knows exactly what he is and only wants _more_.  They would be his.   _Peter_ would be his.  His to teach, his to protect, his to keep.

An Echo was always supposed to have a partner.  There was only one per generation but they came in a set.  When his babcia was the Echo, she told him stories of how his dziadek hunted beside her, an echo to her echo, and their reputation resounded across Europe.  And then his mother took up the mantle, and while his dad didn’t hunt, he was always a deft hand at erasing the evidence and depositing the bodies for her.

And now here is Stiles, and here is Peter, and he thinks _yes, this is right, this is what I’ve been waiting for_.

He tugs at Peter’s hair, then let's go and instead runs his hands down the werewolf’s arms to take his hands before drawing him up and into his lap.  They’re about the same height, and Peter is a comfortable weight balanced on his thighs.

Peter arches a questioning eyebrow, which gives way to surprise and then a delighted sort of pleasure when Stiles leans forward and brushes lips over his.

“The deadpool is expired,” Stiles murmurs into Peter’s mouth.  “But I think we both have unfinished business with a certain Argent, right?”

Peter’s grin is positively feral against his lips.  He steals a kiss, hard and hot, before drawing back again.  “I do believe we have.  And fortunately for us, I even know exactly where she is.”

Stiles’ grin mirrors his.  “Perfect.  There’s our first date planned then.”

Peter laughs, easy and free, and Stiles finally lets himself bask in the realization that he actually gets to have this.

Someone who understands.

 

* * *

 

The berserkers are easy enough to destroy.  Single shot to their bear skulls and they stay down.  It’s almost insulting.

Kate goes down almost as easily without her minions.  They’ve lured her out of the sewers and into the Preserve.  Stiles shoots out her kneecaps from fifty feet away in the boughs of a tree, and then Peter is on her, ripping her limb from limb.

A debt owed.  A debt repaid.

 

* * *

 

They burn her body and drop off her decapitated head on the doorstep of the Argent house where the Calaveras are staying.  A single bullet hole is all that mars her otherwise immaculate head, not a single claw mark to point fingers at any werewolves.

 

* * *

 

“Teach me how to shoot a gun,” Peter says later, naked and on his back, soft sheets underneath him and a boy with feral eyes above.  He runs hands along ribs, down the long slope of a back, and settling at the jut of fine-boned hips.

Stiles has one elbow propping him up even as he sprawls on top of Peter, awash in the dim light of the moon pouring through the window, gloriously bare against Peter’s own body.  Deceptively slender fingers trace nonsensical patterns over Peter’s shoulders, collarbones, the hollow of his throat.  “I thought you preferred a more hands-on approach.”

“I do,” Peter agrees.  “But… I want to know what it’s like for you.  I want you to show me how it feels.”

Stiles’ smile is a lovely thing, pretty and dark and wild as the untamed wind.  Warm breath grazes Peter’s mouth before chapped lips press a kiss to his jawline.

“It would be my pleasure.”

It would be Peter’s too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Sociopath Stiles? Just a bit? But we all love him anyway. Especially Peter.


End file.
